


Toothbrush

by purpledaisy



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-16 22:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7287985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpledaisy/pseuds/purpledaisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Harry doesn’t believe in matrimony and Zayn thinks the promise of forever is a lie; a wedding is a good place to meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toothbrush

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Toothbrush" by DNCE -- the one song that somehow inspired all of this.

It’s the point when nothing looks as it should. Or maybe when everything just looks the same.

Zayn lifts the two prints and holds them out in front of him, studies the intricate short lines of one and broader brush strokes of the other. He’s been looking at the protos for over an hour already, unsure which artist he prefers and which ones needs to take their art to another house.

It’s a book about tea cups of all things -- he hadn’t expected a rush of illustrators to send him drafts about tea cups. Except, somehow, here he is.

His phone buzzing against the desk reminds him of the time and he let’s both pages drop to the table, taking off his glasses and setting them next to the prints. He rubs two fingers over his forehead, tries to smooth away the images of extravagant tea cups with smiling faces from his mind. Knowing him, they’ll dance behind his eyelids all weekend even when he tries to sleep.

“You find the lucky winner yet?” Alysha steps into his studio, a stack of thick canvases in her arms. Zayn eyes them wearily, knows they’ll end up on his desk as digital prints over the weekend. He tries not to think about it.

He shakes his head, standing and stretching his back with his arms reaching overhead. “No but if I see one more tea cup in the next forty-eight hours it will be too soon.”

She grins at him and pulls her canvasses closer, “I won’t show you what we’re working on next, then.”

“As long as it’s not dancing dishes, I’m game.” He folds his glasses and slides them in the dark green case he keeps on his desk. He’s broken two pairs so far this year but not for a lack of trying not to.

Alysha makes a motion of locking her lips and he rolls his eyes at her. “Get out of here,” she says waving her free hand towards him. “You aren’t even supposed to think about work once you leave here for the weekend. And stop trying to sneak the prints in your bag, Zayn! I can see you, you know.”

He huffs a laugh and takes the folder back out of his messenger bag, replacing it on the desk. “Bad habit.” He’s always been a bit of a workaholic but since becoming a children’s art buyer rather than just a children’s artist he’s had a hard time separating work from his life away from his studio.

She props her hip against the door as he finishes gathering his stuff and he can feel her eyes on him. “You won’t even have time to look at them, you know. Wedding and all.”

“Figured it meant I would have plenty of time.” He gives her a wry smile but makes a show of zipping his bag closed, only his personal belongings inside this time. “Not like I’ll even know anyone.” He’s been dreading the entire thing all week, the thought of spending his weekend at a country club to watch two strangers promise away their lives because it’s what everyone expects -- honestly it makes his head hurt worse than the dancing tea cups.

“You’ll know the bride,” Alysha points out, not unhelpfully. “And your sister of course.”

Zayn hooks his bag onto his shoulder and finishes straightening a couple of the prints still on his desk, laughing slightly. “Yeah, you think the bride and I will have time for a chat, maybe grab dinner and drinks?” He raises one eyebrow in a question and she rolls her eyes.

“You’re the one who said she’s a childhood friend, Zed.”

He sighs and steps out from behind his desk. If he doesn’t leave it all behind now, he knows he’ll miss his train and never convince himself to catch a later one. “My sister’s friend from primary school,” he clarifies for what has to be the tenth time in the last two days. Not only to Alysha but to everyone who makes small talk with the question of, “What’s your plan for the weekend?”. Somehow Zayn still hasn’t learned to lie smoothly and just say, “Nothing” like normal people.

“I think I met her, like, five times ever. But when my sister said she didn’t have anyone to take as her plus one, the bride told her to bring me instead because she would love to see me.” He rolls his eyes and turns out the light to his studio following Alysha into the hallway. “Of course now my sister thinks it will be personally offensive if I don’t go, has my mum convinced the same.” He tucks his thumb into the strap of his bag and shrugs, “So off I go, I guess.”

Alysha smiles as he starts off down the hallway, “It’ll be fun, Zayn. Everyone loves weddings.”

He laughs too loudly with an edge of bitterness he hopes only he can hear and waves before he turns the corner. When it comes to loving weddings, he must be the only exception.

Zayn pulls the hood of his jacket up as soon as he steps outside, head tucked down and fingers curled into his palms. It’s been perpetually raining for three days now, the kind of London rain that feels like someone hasn’t quite turned the faucet off fully.

True to his promise from the night before, Louis is waiting in his shiny black Honda on the edge of the street, wipers making a dull squeak against the front window. Zayn notes his haphazard park job as he walks around to the passenger side, not to mention the car is parked on the wrong side of the street.

Louis turns down the radio as Zayn gets in, moves a McDonald’s bag from the passenger seat. “Here,” he says by way of greeting holding out a receipt, his thumb leaving a greasy print against the thin tape.

“Cheers, mate.” Zayn spares a glance at the receipt before tossing it towards the backseat in a crumpled ball. “I’ll pay you when I get back.”

Louis steers away from the side of the street, one hand clutched around a half-wrapped cheese burger. “And?” He has salt on his lips from the fries sitting in the center console.

“And,” Zayn repeats, vaguely trying to remember what kinds of things he’d promised to Louis if he gave him a ride to the train station on his lunch break. He sighs, “I can’t remember.”

“Help me with lesson plans for the kids’ groups,” Louis says, voice oozing with glee, a fry disappearing between his lips. “Let’s start now.”

“Let’s not.” Zayn matches his tone, smiles so hard his eyes close. Part of Louis’ job at the museum where he’s a junior curator is to manage children’s tours. Evidently having half a dozen siblings never prepared Louis for the prying eyes and mouths of primary school kids and he’s been begging for someone to help him for the last two weeks.

Louis presses on unbothered, “I have a group coming in after lunch tomorrow and I’m thinking we’ll do the animals exhibit and play the interesting facts about animals game.”

Zayn’s pinches the bridge of his nose and let’s his eyes close as Louis rambles.

“Like, cows produce more milk if they listen to classical music--”

His eyes open and he looks over, “That’s not fucking true.” He twists in his seat to double check Louis didn’t forget to grab his bag. It’s sitting on the floor in the back, he tugs the zipper the last inch to close it fully.

“It was on Google,” Louis says when Zayn turns back around. “So, yes it is.”

“Oh, of course.” He tries to grab a fry from Louis’ bag only to have his hand swatted away. Flipping off his best friend, he leans back in his seat.

“And otters,” Louis continues on his animal fact explanation, “Otters collect rocks they find that are pretty and put them in pouches on their stomachs. Your turn.”

Zayn sighs, half wondering when working with children’s books has made him an expert on such things. He can assure anyone who asks, he is definitely not. “Pigs can have orgasms lasting up to thirty minutes.” Zayn smiles when Louis’ jaw drops open and he manages to snag a handful of fries, biting one that almost slips out between his fingers first.

“Ah, well, the whole lesson is sort then, yeah? Cheers.” Louis bites the rest of his burger and crumples the paper in his hand just to chuck it at Zayn. It hits the window instead.

“Did you grab my suit?” Zayn turns in his seat again even though he’d took the suit to Louis’ flat with his bag the night before and reminded Louis to lay the garment bag in the trunk this morning -- twice.

“No, I went and brought your prettiest white dress instead.”

“Prick.”

“I put it in the fancy bag you had on the back of my couch and layed it very, very delicately on the floor of the trunk. I hope it fulfills your wishes, sir.” Louis makes to tip his imaginary hat before flipping on his turn signal, the train station within sight.

Zayn relaxes back into his seat, adjusts the seat belt where it rubs uncomfortably against his chest, “Have I mentioned I hate weddings?”

Louis looks at him out of the corner of his eyes, slowing the car in the loading zone. “Not within the last day, no.” There’s a knowing smile on his lips when he looks full on at Zayn, “But I am intimately familiar with your feelings on the matter.”

He smirks, “That you are. It’s just bull shit. The whole thing.”

Louis’ laugh interrupts him before he can launch into his wedding spiel -- after all this time he must be able to sense it coming on. “Zayn, short of that train,” he points out the far window to the tracks just beyond, “Running off the tracks, you’re going to a wedding. And I sincerely hope you enjoy it.”

Zayn undoes the seatbelt and sighs, “Yeah, well here’s to hoping.” He gives a thumbs up as he opens the door and Louis faceplants against the steering wheel in response.

“Try not to be an absolute buzzkill,” Louis says, voice muffled. He sits up when Zayn opens the back door to get his bag. “You’re allowed to have fun every once in awhile, I know it’s a foreign concept these days.” He raises his eyebrows when Zayn levels a hard glare at him but true to form he doesn’t fully shut up, “Just because you didn’t get a fairytale ending doesn’t mean all hope--”

Zayn shuts the door before he can finish this time and Louis flips him the bird. Luckily he still lets Zayn get his suit out of the back of the car without speeding away. The signature Louis Tomlinson dramatics tend to lack forethought.

♥

There’s no line at the automated ticketing so Zayn steps up to the machine right away, careful to not let the bottom of his suit bag touch the wet cement. He knows the whole point of the bag is to protect the suit so he doesn’t have to but somewhere in the back of his mind, he can hear all three of his sisters and his mum telling him to hold it up a bit higher from the damp pavement.

The train platform isn’t as crowded as when he usually takes a train back home to Bradford but busy enough he’s glad to be a few minutes early as he heads for the third car. 

He’s distracted as he gets on, watching a couple lifting the arm rests between their seats to sit closer together, a dad and baby tucked in a corner already asleep, though they couldn’t have boarded that long ago, a teenager with earbuds in his ears mouthing along to a silent song and mimicking playing a set of drums.

There’s another couple in front of Zayn moving down the aisle slowly as they try to talk to each other, walk, and hold hands all at once. Zayn stays a couple steps behind trying not to step on their heels nor whack anyone in the face with his duffle bag and suit.

He stops short right as the couple does, the guy lifting the girl’s suitcase into the overhead compartment near an empty set of seats. Whatever he says next makes her laugh with her head thrown back and then she’s leaning forward to kiss him, distinctive tongue action making Zayn take one step further back.

He looks over his shoulder to see if anyone is forming a queue behind them but the aisle is empty. Further back a guy is lifting a rolling bag into one of the overhead shelves, his dark blue sweatshirt lifting with his arms, a little strip of skin just visible over the edge of his jeans. He turns slightly towards the front as his sweatshirt goes back down, but not before Zayn catches a flash of ink, something hip to hip on smooth skin. It kind of makes his mouth go dry. That may be attributed to the last time he actually got off with someone is too far a distant memory to be recalled so suddenly.

He realizes he’s staring a bit too late and he drags his eyes up belatedly. The guy is pretty, is the thing. Long hair that falls in curls under a blue beanie, strong jawline and a dimple in his cheek as he half smirks when he catches Zayn looking.

“Baby, get out of this guy’s way.”

Zayn turns back towards the couple in front of him only to find them both staring at him, blinking expectantly.  He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say next so he settles on, “No worries,” with a small smile as he skirts past them, the stranger in the back of the train slowly fading from his mind.

He chooses a seat in the front of the car near one of the hanging racks where he can put his suit. He almost takes a picture to send to the women in his family; the ones who nag him about not taking care of anything and always having a wrinkle somewhere on his clothes. Most of the time their points are valid just not _this_ time.

He shoves his duffle under the seat and stretches his legs out in front of him, happy to have the window seat and being able to settle in for a few hours. The wedding is in a town he’s never heard of, he couldn’t find it on the map of the southern countryside even after Google dropped a pin for him. Doniya said something about a private country club and an outdoor venue -- Zayn just hopes he remembered his allergy pills in the fervor of packing the night before.

A distinct vibration against his ass has him shifting in his seat to get his phone out. There’s a message from Doniya with the address of the rich people country club and another from Louis: _Maybe there will be enough lonely bridesmaids and groomsmen you can snag one to share your new birthday gifts. Your mum would be proud!_

He rolls his eyes at Louis’ message opting not to respond before putting his phone in the pocket of his coat.

It’s been two months since his birthday but the gifts from his mum are still sealed tight, sitting in a looming and daunting pile on the side table in his kitchen. He hadn’t had the energy to unpack them the night of the family dinner and the excuses to leave them where they sat piled up easily after that.

It had been like he’d accidentally filled out a wedding registry, a sickeningly familiar concept, as he’d unwrapped the gifts from his mum. He was at his parents house, a birthday cake post-twenty six candle blaze demolished on the table, his sisters perched all around him. 

There was a bottle opener so fancy he’s not sure how he can learn to use it, sets of two in mugs, plates and wine glasses, a fondue set that he doesn’t ever remember asking for. The last gift, a clincher really, had been a crockpot and a book called “Bites For Two” that appeared on first thumb through to be a cookbook for couples.

“Are you sending him some sort of message?” Doniya asked, looking around at all the stuff, saying the words Zayn couldn’t articulate.

His mom shook her head and took a sip of her wine, “He’s just moved into a new place, Dee.” And then to Zayn, “I’m just helping fill up your kitchen. And if you want to make dinner for some girl -- or some boy -- then you can.”

She shrugged like it was just so easy and Waliyha started giggling while Safaa rolled her eyes and kept texting like the blossoming teenager she has become. Zayn didn’t have the heart to tell her the best chance of any of the gifts being used would be by him and Louis and their not so romantic Kraft mac & cheese nights. 

“Subtle, mum.” Doniya had rolled her eyes and reached for more wine from the center of the table. Zayn snorted and shifted his glass towards his sister to fill. 

Their mum seemed stunned looking around at them, “What’s wrong?” She swallowed and looked towards Zayn, “You know I don’t mean anything. I figured it’d been enough time, I thought--” 

Zayn couldn’t take the hurt on her face and he tried to smile instead, “It’s perfect mum. I love them.” He pulled his own wine glass back towards himself then, ready to down the entire thing in a gulp. 

“I just want you to be happy,” she said quietly, smiling ever so gently.

He nodded because he knew her intentions; he just wasn’t planning to find happiness in another person or a wedding band the way she hoped, at least not again. “Thank you,” he said pointedly, lifting his glass towards her, “As soon as I learn to use all of this you can come over for dinner.”

“Food poisoning a la Zayn,” Waliyha drawled earning her a swift kick to her shin from her big brother.

One day he’ll open the boxes and find spaces in his kitchen for the gifts, actually use them. He thinks he’d quite like to learn to make fondue and he’s down to just one wine glass but there’s something holding him back -- something about how each time he glances at the gifts he sees his mum’s face in the back of his mind. He can almost hear the wistfulness when she said she thought it had been enough time, the hope there. A therapist would probably tell him that projecting subconscious thoughts and fears onto glassware and a fondue pot isn’t healthy. They’d probably be right.

It’s not all bad when he remembers the pile, when he stares at the unopened boxes over a bowl of cereal each morning. There are times he remembers, albeit vaguely that it can be nice to have someone to share his life with -- fondue, recipes, mugs and all -- someone who he cares enough about to keep their favorite flavor of yogurt on the top shelf of his fridge and let them steal the covers from his bed.

There was a time, though, when he had that and he thought he was going to have it forever--it just turned out forever wasn’t that long afterall. The pain it brought with it, the uneven tearing of his heart, still echoes somewhere in his chest, long buried by every intention of his own. Now it just pokes every once in awhile, right up against the soft skin of his heart anytime he so much as thinks of trying to have that again.

As the train pulls away from the station, he drops his head back against the red seat back, forces his eyes closed to get some sleep, tries not to feel like he’s going to attend a sentencing rather than a ceremony.

♥

The country club is sat squarely in one of the most green and luscious areas Zayn has ever been, the grass perfectly trimmed with trees in full bloom aligning the gravel drive to the Waverly Inn at the top. A taxi drops him off at the roundabout near the door, the driver offering to carry Zayn's one bag and suit inside for him. Zayn politely declines trying to remember a time anyone has offered to carry his shit fifteen feet for him.

The lobby has wrapping spiral staircases with flowers attached to just about everything and Zayn can feel his allergies tingling on sight alone. There’s serene piano music playing from somewhere and dull chatter coming from one of the long hallways on either side of the front desk but it’s quiet other than that. Zayn’s conscious of the way his boots sound as he crosses the dark wood floor.

His room is a single on the third floor, booked by himself after he told Doniya he would be her plus one but they would not be staying in the same room like they were six years old all over again. The woman at the front desk has strawberry blonde hair done in loose curls and a polite smile as she hands over his room key. 

She puts one manicured finger up as he starts to back away, “Wait a sec, love.” Holly, according to her name badge, bends down and then reappears with a gift bag in hand, stamped with his name and overflowing with with fluffy light pink tissue paper.

“Gift from the bride and groom,” she says when he raises an eyebrow and reaches for the bag, hesitant. It’s heavier than he first thought it would be on first glance and hears something knock around that sounds like glass. She lowers her voice and stage whispers, "From what I hear it's wine and chocolate.”

Zayn smirks and takes the bag fully. "Can’t go wrong, then." Before he walks away, he winks at her and, for the life of him, has no idea why. Holly doesn’t seem to know either as the tops of her cheeks turn pink. Whether that’s flattery or second hand embarrassment, he doesn’t stick around to find out. Halfway down the hallway to the right, though, she calls after him,  "Lifts are in the other direction, darling."

His cheeks are the ones to color this time as he backtracks in front of her desk, sheepishly waving with his hand holding the gift bag. “Right, thanks.”

The lifts are clearly marked once he finds them and he presses the call button about three times, playing into the myth it makes the lift come faster, and dodges inside before the doors fully open. His bag, of course, gets caught on one of the sliding doors and he has to back out to unhook it and go in again, sure his cheeks are flaming. He presses the third floor button and Holly winks at him from across the lobby, sending embarrassed tremors straight down to his toes. He can't do anything but stare back until the doors finally shut and the lift starts moving. 

His room fits with the rest of the motif of the inn, dark woods and open floors, a bed covered in white linens that looks vaguely like a cloud, a forest green couch nestled in the corner, french doors opening to a balcony. It’s more than the motel he’d imagined but he’s a bit caught off guard when he thinks it may cost more than his flat in Hackney.

He drops his bag and hangs his suit carefully in the closet. Before he can get into the gift bag and eat whatever chocolate is in there, someone is knocking on his door. He has half a minute to be curious about who he knows who could possibly have found him in the middle of nowhere before his older sister is walking in snapping her gum between her teeth.

"Finally! I thought your train had run off the tracks." It's as good as _hello_ coming from her.

"I've been here all of two minutes, Dee.”

"Yeah, well, you better change because the dinner starts in, like, five minutes." She looks at her naked wrist where a watch would be, which is what their dad always does when he wants them to hurry. Then she heads for the windows, tying back the curtains and opening the blinds which is exactly what their mum did when they stayed in hotels as kids. 

“What dinner?” Even as he says it he slips off his jacket and shirt, taking mental inventory of what he actually packed in his bag and what he can wear to this supposed dinner. Having sisters has taught him not to argue or hesitate at their requests and asking too many questions is always a bad idea.

“Formal dinner following the rehearsal dinner,” she recites, picking up his discarded shirt and putting it in a courtesy linen bag hanging from the back of the door. Knowing himself quite well, he’ll have to remind himself it’s over there before check out on Sunday. Dirty clothes belonging in linen bags is not a swatch of DNA he shares with Doniya. “Didn’t you read the invitation? I sent you a copy last month.”

He smiles in the way his mum says looks like he’s cringing as he pulls out a light pink shirt and shakes it to get the wrinkles out. In his haste of protecting his suit jacket, he didn’t quite think ahead to the rest of his outfits. “Not exactly.”

Doniya snatches the shirt from him and tugs on the edges. He’s pretty sure she’s going to tear the stitches at the seams but she seems to know what she’s doing prattling off some sort of schedule that _evidently_ was enclosed in the invitation he hadn’t read.

“Here.” She gives the shirt back and he slides it over his shoulders before starting to button it from the bottom. “You didn’t listen to a thing I just said, did you?”

Technically he _had_ but he bites his lip and raises his eyebrows with a quick, “Huh?” just for the way it makes her face turn as pink as his shirt.

She throws her hands up and settles for sitting on the edge of the bed while he puts on a pair of dress trouser, light pink socks and black shoes. He makes one pass in front of the mirror hanging over the dresser, lamenting the lack of time for a shower and dragging his hand back through his hair to make it a little messy. 

“Good?” He puts on his watch and looks towards his sister.

She purses her lips, locks her phone with a dull click. “You look soft yet artfully disenchanted by life.”

He laughs and, god, he misses when he was a kid and lived with his sisters under the same roof. “And here I was just hoping to look dinner appropriate.”

 ♥

Doniya takes the lead as they go back to the first floor to the ballroom where the dinner is. She points out that Zayn would already know the location if he had bothered with the invitation. Zayn only half listens again, focused a bit more on making her promise to not abandon him. 

“Like, I don’t know anyone here besides you, you get that right?”

“You know the bride, Zayn. Don’t be dramatic.” She pauses to take a picture of the flower arch over one of the hallways. Zayn’s nose itches again as he stares at her. With a long suffering sigh she promises she won’t leave him alone for too long as they get closer to the banquet ballroom, the low din of sounds from the crowd gathered fluttering down the hallway.

There’s a chalkboard out front announcing the bride and groom in the kind of fancy calligraphy Zayn had always hoped he would be able to create. Twenty-six years down and no such luck.

Evidently, promises from his sister now are about as good as when they were kids and she made him eat a pie she swore was chocolate -- it was definitely mud. She flits away the moment they step over the threshold of the ballroom, spotting someone she knows if the shriek is anything to go buy. Zayn watches her go weighing the option of following her like a lost puppy before she’s wrapped up by a group of no less than five equally excitable and shrieking women and he decides to find a place to sit instead.

Most of the tables seem to be full with premade groups if Zayn’s judging by how comfortable they all seem to be, talking and laughing over each other. That, or very chatty and outgoing strangers. Zayn has always considered himself to be somewhat confident but maybe not enough to squeeze in the extra chair that sticks out at a few of the tables. He puts his hands in his pocket and rocks back on his heels while he peruses the seating arrangement, aiming for casual instead of hopelessly lost.

 The flash of a camera draws his attention across the room to where the bride and groom pose for pictures near a pair of wooden doors that look out over the grounds.  Startlingly, the bride looks the same as Zayn remembers, wild blonde hair and big blue eyes with thin lips and a subtle smile. He looks away when she leans over to kiss the groom and they start laughing into each others mouth for no apparent reason.

It’s then he spots a couple of open tables toward the back corner of the room and he makes a beeline with the kind of focus that might make people think he’s found someone he knows not just an empty place to sit quietly.

The tables are draped in white table cloths with flower pieces in the center and petals scattered artfully around. Zayn makes for the one on the left when he spots a bowl of multi-colored jelly beans and it’s the most childish decision he’s made all day. He’s fine with it.

In a demonstration of deep insecurity, he takes his phone from his pocket and sets it on the table in front of him, checking for texts and then scrolling through Instagram and Twitter. He’s about to tap open his Tinder app -- you never know what can happen in a new place -- when a shock of design catches his eye.

The edges of the room are lined with tables, each lined with metal serving dishes though most are still covered. The table where Zayn’s eyes are drawn is covered in desserts and cupcakes with fluffy pastel frosting in every shade.

Despite a sweet tooth he can’t seem to control, Zayn’s eyes fall on the guy standing in front of the table or rather his pants: black fabric with white floral prints stamped against every inch of them all the way down to the flared hems. They hug his legs in a way that draws Zayn attention to his ass for a moment too long, momentarily distracted from the patterning.

He’s facing away so Zayn doesn’t feel as bad ogling him a bit, his hair brushing down just below his broad shoulders. There’s a girl in a pink dress next to him, rearranging one of the cupcake platters before taking a step back and motioning at the guy. Obnoxious-pants-but-fit-legs guy lifts a camera -- one of the fancy ones Zayn knows he would accidently break if given the chance--and there’s a flash as he takes a picture of the desserts, evidently.

Rich people.

The girl in the pink dress darts forward to adjust another one of the cupcakes and Zayn lets his attention slip to the jelly beans in the pretty dish on the table. He picks them out at random and starts arranging them in an intricate colored line, recalling the basics of color theory to pull the primary colors out in a row on their own. When he’s satisfied he picks up a purple one and bites it in half, partially tempted to just get up and leave before the dinner truly starts. He can eat room service in bed all alone without a single person to judge him. Doniya wouldn’t miss him considering she hasn’t batted an eye in his direction since they first walked in. Before he can move though, the chair next to him gets pulled out and he looks up with the other half of a purple jelly bean still bit between his teeth.

It’s the guy with the floral trousers, the camera in his hand.

“Uh, no pictures, mate.” Zayn gives him an uneasy smile, letting the jelly bean fall into his mouth fully.

The guy laughs at the same time Zayn feels the tug of something oddly recognizable in his smile, something he can’t quite place directly. “Wasn’t going to take your picture, mate. Can I sit?”

Zayn clears his throat to mask his embarrassment at his assumption of having his picture taken -- like he’s a celebrity and not a loner at a wedding. He gestures to the chair, scooting his own to the side slightly to make room for the his flower adorned legs to slide under the table.

“Sorry, thought you were a photographer.” Zayn motions towards the camera as the guy sets it carefully on the table and then takes a green jelly bean from Zayn’s line up without hesitating for permission.

“Nah, my sister is the wedding planner,” he squints as he looks out across the room, pointing when he sees her, “the one in the pink dress.” Zayn follows his finger to the same girl who had been instructing him about the cupcakes earlier.

Zayn smiles and tilts his head, “Doesn’t explain the camera really, does it?”

The guy purses his lips, running his hand back through his hair. It fluffs up on top of his head a little more -- artfully messy. “Guess that’s true. Sometimes I help her on the weekends and then I’m supposed to take pictures of the really pretty things.” He grabs another jelly bean and bites it, “You know, enhance her portfolio and stuff.”

Zayn takes another jelly bean too, rolling it between his fingers. “So should I be offended you didn’t take my photo, then?” The guys eyes go slightly wider when he looks at Zayn, a smirk on his lips that lights up a memory in Zayn’s mind. The pretty guy from the train. “Wait, did you take the train in from London just now?”

The guy snaps his fingers as his face registers with the same realization, “That’s where I know you from. Or, not know you but, you know.” His voice is slow and a bit rambling but Zayn finds something honest in it, a little endearing. “I wasn’t sure where to sit and then I felt like you were familiar but I couldn’t pinpoint why. 

Figures, considering they’ve only ever seen each other from half a train car away but Zayn doesn’t say anything, a little too glad to have someone to sit at the table with him.  Zayn introduces himself offering his hand for the guy to take.

“Harry Styles,” he says as they shake hands, his grip firm and the ring on his finger clinking right against one of Zayn’s. “How do you know Rob and Ana?”

Zayn stares at him blankly, the names not registering anywhere in his mind. “Who?”

“Bride and groom?” Harry points over his shoulder with his thumb, one eyebrow curving up with a bit of mirth there.

“Nick and Alyana?”

“Oh god, that’s so awkward.” Harry’s eyes light up, “Don’t tell my sister I fucked up their names. She’ll fire me. It’s not like I actually know them or anything.”

Zayn promises he won’t, right as Harry’s sister run past their table, her heels clicking on the floor with unquestioned urgency. “I’m not much better, mate. My sister and Alyana were friends as kids and for some reason I got caught up in coming. I’ve never seen Nick a day in my life.”

Harry takes another handful of jelly beans and dumps them on the tablecloth between them. “I figured that’s why you were being a loser over here by yourself.”

He smirks when Zayn’s mouth gapes in mock offense. “I wasn’t being a loser, I was enjoying the solitude and room to spread out at an empty table.”

“No, no, I get it.” Harry laughs as they both start arranging the jelly beans in color order again. “Whenever I help Gemma, that’s my sister, she always abandons me and I’m left to socialize on my own.” He puts air quotes around _socialize_ and Zayn smiles -- sounds exactly what Doniya would say to get him out of her hair.

He tells Harry as much, points out Doniya across the room where she’s talking to the same group of ladies, still not sparing even a glance in Zayn’s direction. “Her and my mum acted like it would be the end of the world if I didn’t come and yet here I am sorting jelly beans,” he tells Harry, eating one of the candies as he says it.  “What are the jelly beans for anyway?”

“Ice breaker,” Harry says, straightening their line-up with the tip of his finger. “Something for a bunch of people who don’t know each other to talk about, you know? That, or something to do with their hands if it gets awkward.”

Zayn stares at the jelly beans and feels a little tricked, he’s fallen right into the trap of being distracted by candy to avoid awkward interactions. “That’s kind of genius actually,” he says, pressing hard on one so it squishes the hard shell on the outside.

Harry’s eyebrows pull together as he watches the slow destruction. “That’s my sister. Genius in forcing conversations, flowers and romance.”

“Quite the title.”

“A lot of responsibility,” Harry says. “That’s why she needs an assistant and I have a part time job because of it.” He shrugs before leaning closer to Zayn and lowering his voice, “The big paradox, of course, is that I absolutely hate weddings.”

Zayn smiles before leaning in even closer to whisper, “Same. I’m here for free alcohol and cake, truth be told”

Harry looks at him, pursed lips twitching into an almost smile, “I think I’m going to like you, Zayn.”

A moment later, there is a line of waiters coming through the side doors, trays of food hefted on their shoulders as they start to make their way around to the tables.

“Oh, so this is like actually a formal dinner, then.” Zayn crunches a jelly bean between his back teeth watching the procession of staff, eyes catching specifically on a group carrying bottles of wine and filling glasses at each table.

“Not as bad as some I’ve seen,” Harry says. A younger man comes over to fill their glasses with deep red wine and Harry pauses to wink at him before continuing with Zayn. “Of course, nothing beats the wedding with chicken nuggets and burgers.” He covers his mouth with his hand for the illusion of secrecy, “Not by choice, mind you. The caterers fell through at the last minute.”

Zayn sips his wine, there’s a bitter undertone and he tries not to wince. “I’m sure that went over well with the happy couple.”

Harry smirks, “The bride’s mother hit the fucking roof. I just had to stand there and pretend like she wasn’t batty as all hell.” The way he says it makes Zayn laugh, easily imagining an irate middle-age woman along with Harry schooling his face into something less than what he felt.

Their table is one of the last to be served though Zayn hardly minds, finding Harry easy to talk to, riffing off about the weddings he’s been to, some more ridiculous than others. He hardly notices the plates being set in front of them until he reaches for his wine again. There are no chicken nuggets or burgers but it does seem to be mostly finger foods -- quiche, crackers and cheese, prosciutto and fruit.

“So Zayn,” Harry pauses and looks at him, “What’s your last name?”

Zayn sets his glass down, and licks the corner of his lips, “Malik.”

“So, Zayn Malik, what is it you do in London?”

“I’m an art buyer for children’s books,” Zayn says. “Got my degree in art and I’ve always loved literature,” he shrugs, “It all kind of fell together.”

Harry grins and wipes a dot of cream cheese from the corner of his mouth, “My kids would love you. Not like _my_ kids,” he clarifies quickly, “My students. I’m a primary school teacher.”

Zayn’s lips twitch, “Thought you were a wedding planning assistant?" 

Harry rolls his eyes, “In this economy? Zayn you have to be versatile.”

“Oh, well, of course. What age do you teach?”

“Little ones,” Harry says over a bite of a quiche. Zayn pokes at his, afraid there are too many hidden vegetables lodged inside of it. “Year Three so they’re usually six going on seven.”

“Sounds like a nightmare, mate.”

“Some days it can be,” Harry says evenly, “And then there’s days where they show up so excited about learning cursive lettering or they fight to sit next to me during storytime.” He shrugs and one side of his lips quirks up, “Makes it worth it, I think.” 

“Did you always want to teach?” Zayn thinks of his little cousins, of growing up around his sisters and how off-putting being surrounded by a bunch of kids has become to him. He much prefers the focus groups he has for his art, the thirty minute sessions before he’s allowed to vanish back to the studio for a couple more months.

“Not always. I thought I wanted to be a lawyer for a bit, a writer for a few years. Being a teacher I kind of get to do it all.” 

“A lawyer to the year threes?”

“You have no idea, mate. Earlier this week we had a very serious trial after one of the girls stole a pink eraser. Of course she hasn’t been proven guilty and there’s been quite a bit of evasion of the authorities but,” he smiles when Zayn starts laughing at him, “You get the idea.”

“You weren’t lying about being versatile then, were you?”

Doniya chooses that moment to show up at Zayn’s side tutting at the food still on his plate as she introduces herself to Harry. Zayn is a little flustered at how polite Harry is, wiping his mouth before offering his hand and complementing his sister’s dress all in one breath. He’s particularly drawn in by the way Doniya’s eyes never leave Harry’s face until Zayn clears his throat and she startles back to look over at him. 

“Are you going out to that bar?” She asks like Zayn should know exactly what she’s talking about. He absolutely does not. She tosses her hands up, “Honestly! There’s a bar in town for everyone to meet up at tonight. Like a meet and greet kind of thing.” 

“Are you going?” Zayn raises his eyebrows, predicting his sister’s answer before she says it

“Well, no. I need a good eight hours of sleep before the ceremony, Zayn. You should go though,” she has a weirdly intense look in her eyes when her gaze darts between them, “Both of you.”

Zayn turns to Harry who has taken to eating jelly beans again. “Thoughts?”

“I mean, it’s either that or go drink in my hotel room alone and watch trash television.”

Zayn smirks, “We should go, then.”

Doniya’s already headed across the room but she smiles over her shoulder at Zayn like she knows what he’s decided.

 ♥

As guests start to head out of the dining room, Zayn and Harry move along with them to a line of cabs waiting out front. It’s an even split of guests queueing outside for cabs or heading back to the lifts.

“I love how weddings are so organized,” Harry says as they walk to one of the cabs towards the back. “If this was a night out at home it would be a wreck trying to get everyone from one place to the next.”

“I knew there was a bright side to coming,” Zayn laughs as he slides into the backseat, Harry following after him. Everyone else gets into the cars in groups of two or three and Zayn is again thankful to not be alone -- though he’s not sure he’d be going anywhere besides back to his room if he hadn’t met Harry.

“Do you think your sister will come?” Zayn asks as the car starts to pull away slowly.

“Gemma?” Harry shakes his head, “Absolutely not. She disapproves of anything fun the night before a wedding.” He runs his hand back through his hair and then adjusts his flowery trousers. “She’d prefer to see everyone in bed at a reasonable hour so there’s no chance of a hungover crowd. Maybe do a nice facemask in her honor.”

Zayn laughs and relaxes a little further into his seat, “Maybe she’ll find Doniya and they can become friends, then.”

The bar is packed when they walk in and whether that’s other wedding guests or random well-dressed strangers, Zayn can’t be sure. The only person he recognizes for sure is Harry.

It’s dark save for blue lighting but even that lends to more of a cave atmosphere as Harry tries to lead the way through the tables and randomly scattered groups of people dancing. They make it to the far corner of the bar and two empty stools. Zayn rarely believes in fate but in the mess of people surrounding them, a spot to sit is simply meant to be. Harry high fives him as they both straddle the bar stools, hips and thighs tight together. 

“This okay?” Harry asks, his deep voice carrying even against the bar noise.

Zayn nods, grabbing his wallet from his back pocket to open a tab. “What do you want to drink?”

Harry pulls at his bottom lip before looking right at Zayn, “Surprise me?”

“Surprise you?” Zayn purses his lips when Harry grins. “Alright.” He leans forward to find the bartender, a girl with light lavender hair noticing him right away and coming over.

“What can I get you, loves?” She looks between them, tossing two paper coasters on the bar top. Harry picks his up right away and tries to spin it around on it’s edge. Zayn tries not to laugh.

“We like surprises,” he says.

Harry slaps his hand on his spinning coaster to lean forward and smile at the girl, “But I don’t really like beer all that much.”

Zayn glances towards him, “Really? No beer?”

“Makes my mouth feel,” he smacks his lips together, “Like, fuzzy.”

“Interesting.” Zayn looks back to the bartender, “We like surprises but no beer, please.” She nods as she pulls two glasses from beneath the bar top. Three different flavors of vodka, a little ginger ale and a splash of grape juice concentrate to turn the whole thing light pink and then she’s setting the drinks down right in front of them.

“Oh shit,” Harry says, eyes wide, as she puts a straw in each and wipes her hands.“That is fucked up.”

Zayn has to shoo away Harry’s hand when he tries to pay, handing his card over instead and asking the bartender to hold on to it for him. Harry takes a drink first, eyes blinking wide as he swallows.

“Good?” Zayn stirs his with the straw.

“You can’t taste the vodka at all.” Harry takes another drink, “That’s wicked.”

Zayn laughs and tries it, pleasantly surprised by the light taste and only slightly worried by how much vodka he saw poured in with his own two eyes. “Cheers to Mr. and Mrs., uh,” Zayn tries to think of the groom’s last name and comes up short.

Harry laughs with his head thrown back understanding quickly. “To the strangers getting married tomorrow.” He clinks his glass against Zayn’s.

“To a lifetime of happiness and all that shit.” Zayn finishes their makeshift toast before they both drink, smiling around their straws.

“Are you with the wedding?” The bartender is standing near them again, tapping electric pink nails on the bar top.

“Technically,” Zayn says right as Harry says, “Yes, we are. Dear friends of ours.”

“Here, then.” She hands them a deck of playing cards, “Courtesy of the bride and groom.”

Harry grabs the box first, flipping it over to reveal a picture of the husband and wife to be with pink hearts drawn along the edges. “Oh no.” Zayn bites his straw while Harry opens the box, dumping out the deck with the same printed image on the back of every card.

“Bit full of themselves, yeah?” Zayn picks up a card and tilts it around, studying it.

“You mean you don’t give playing cards with your face on it out to your family and friends?”

“Nah, mine only come with nudes.”

Harry gapes and then it turns into a smirk, “Might need me a set like that.” He starts laughing right away but it sends heat through Zayn’s face and he grabs at his straw before Harry can notice. Harry doesn’t seem to care at all, dealing the cards back and forth between them

“What are we playing?” Zayn gathers his in a stack to even them against the bar.

“Uh, Go Fish. Of course.”

“Haven’t played that since I was about eight,” Zayn says. “Is this what I get for hanging out with a school teacher?”

“Possibly.” Harry sets the pile in between them. “Except every time you go fish, you have to drink and each time I get a pair, you have to drink and vice versa.”

“You play this with your kids, Styles?” Zayn raises his eyebrows looking over the hand he’s been dealt.

“Hey!” Harry purses his lips, “I’ll have you know I was Primary Teacher of the Year last year in my district.”

“Were you?” Zayn lifts his drink and tilts it just towards Harry, “Cheers to that then, babe.”

Harry grabs for his straw and wraps his lips around it. “I’ll drink to myself, sure,” he says once he’s swallowed smacking his lips together. He fans his cards out and sweeps them back towards his face twice. “Ready to get your ass handed to you by a school teacher?”

Zayn wins the first game easily though Harry takes the second as they both finish their drinks. The bartender swings by again and they ask for the same drink once more, dividing the cards to play Higher and Lower.

Playing cards at a bar makes Zayn feel older than he is, like it’s something his grandparents might do if they wandered to a pub these days but for some reason he doesn’t mind as much as he would usually. Part of him thinks it might be growing up, not caring what he’s supposed to be doing but he thinks most of it might be Harry, the way he doesn’t care at all, never losing focus on the game even as people stare at them. 

Zayn loses the first six matches in a row on the new game. “You want me to take six drinks or chug for six?” Zayn stirs his drink again, this one even lighter than the first which can’t mean anything good for his alcohol tolerance. He doesn’t get out as much as he did before he was forced to become an Adult, considers a good Friday night these days as a round of pints with friends and maybe one more beer over a good book.

Harry studies the glass and squints his eyes, “Six drinks but each one has to be two seconds.”

“What?” Zayn’s eyes go wide, “Who made that rule?”

“I did and I’m a teacher so what I say goes.” Harry’s cheeks are flushed in the blue lighting and his hair is skewed to one side since he keeps running his hands through it but his lips are bright and full and rather distracting if Zayn looks at his face for too long. The more he drinks the longer his eyes lingers, gaze dragging lazily.

Zayn flips him off as he does his required drinks, nearly choking when Harry has him redo the last two because he “wasn’t looking.” It’s worth it when Zayn takes the deck and gets Harry fucked over seven times and then they’re laughing so hard the deck just sits between them untouched.

A couple of girls make their way between them, asking them to take shots with them, which they do without complaint -- licking salt from their hands and tossing back tequila. Somehow Harry squirts lime juice in his eye and Zayn reaches behind the bar for a napkin, patting along his face and being absolutely no help at all as he loses his breath laughing.

“You guys are really cute together,” one of the girls says when her and her friend start to leave and Zayn smiles, thanks her only realizing after she’s disappear that she assumes they are a couple.

“I’ve gone blind.” Harry is moaning from his bar stool with one eye still closed, reaching out for Zayn’s face and patting his nose.

“You haven’t,” Zayn says. “How many fingers am I holding up?” He tries for three and ends up with four, the alcohol in his veins doing him no favors.

“Six,” Harry says with a cheeky smile, batting away Zayn’s hand when he tries to hit him.  

A little while later and another tequila shot for the hell of it, Zayn decides he needs food to which Harry agrees easily. Standing up from the bar stools after a couple solid hours of drinking proves to be harder than they think and they lean on each other all the way outside, laughing and bumping into people on their way out. It’s the most fun Zayn has had in too long.

“You know,” Harry says as they start walking, “I usually don’t enjoy the weekends when I help my sister.” 

Zayn knocks Harry’s hip with his own, “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

Harry squawks and puts his hands up, “Like, it’s just boring you know? As much as you don’t want to be here, I’m glad your sister dragged you along.” He grins when they stop under a streetlight, “Saving my life you are.” Zayn’s about to tell him he’s dramatic when Harry’s face lights up and he points just past Zayn’s shoulder, “Fate.”

Tipsy, it takes Zayn a moment to follow his finger but he finally connects his gaze, finding a Thai place right across the street. He grabs Harry’s pointed finger trying to twist it backwards but it ends up in their hands twisted together as they walk across the street.

The restaurant is crowded considering the hour and Zayn finds a table while Harry places their order, Zayn telling Harry to surprise him. Sitting in one of the booths under fluorescent lights, Zayn notices how his feet stick to the floor and that his shirt is unbuttoned below his set of inked lips. He goes to pull his shirt back together, slightly more sober out of the dark bar right as Harry slides in across from him, crumpling the receipt in a ball.

“What’s with the lips?” He points at Zayn’s chest and drops his hand back to the table.

Zayn finishes the button to cover the ink, before tugging at one of his earrings and shrugging. “A mistake, I guess.”

“Really? I think it’s kind of sick,” Harry says. “Not like getting someone’s name tattooed on you or their face across your back or something, you know? I like that it’s subtle.”

“It’s subtle until you’re not with the person anymore and their lips are still there.”

Harry sucks his lips into his mouth, eyes widening and Zayn wonders if he’s been too harsh, tone a bit too bitter. Harry exhales and he huffs a laugh, “That does fucking suck.” Zayn flips him off but something deep in his chest releases just slightly.

“What about you?” Zayn nods towards Harry’s arms where his sleeve are rolled up. He has a scarf tied loosely around his neck but Zayn can see ink across his collarbones. “Any you regret?”

Harry pulls at his lip, considering. “Maybe all of them at one point or another.” He runs his hand up his arm, “I think there are days when I wake up and I wonder why I have an anchor on my wrist or a moth on my stomach--”

“You have a moth on your stomach?” Zayn looks down at his stomach, covered in the black fabric of his shirt as it has been all night.

Harry puts his hand just under his rib cage, “I’d take my shirt off and show you if I wasn’t worried we would get kicked out and never get our food.”

“That’s very considerate of you, Harry Styles.”

Zayn orders an Uber when Harry’s name is called from the counter, paying close attention to his phone, tongue pressed between his teeth.

“You ready?” Harry stands at the end of the table with the white plastic bag hooked on his finger, two forks bit between his teeth, slurring his voice.

Zayn slides from the booth and takes the forks from his lips, pretends to poke him in the eyes with them much to the appalled gazes of their fellow patrons.

“We have to wait right here,” Zayn says defiantly stopping next to a streetlamp outside and checking his Uber app.

“I don’t wanna,” Harry says pacing a couple of yards up the sidewalk and pausing at a fire hydrant.

“You’re stubborn.”

“You’re bossy,” Harry counters, flipping his hair as he says it.

Zayn reaches a hand to the street light to steady himself. “You have flowers on your pants.” He laughs as he says it, motioning towards Harry’s stupid pants. He can feel his face doing the embarrassing smiling thing he does when he drinks too much or feels a bit too fond about something. He’s going for the drunk excuse this time.

Harry looks down at his pants before wiggling his hips and making Zayn smile that much more. “Yeah, so what?”

“Nothing,” Zayn says, a smug smile on his lips. “I like them.” He’s never known someone to wear floral trousers so happily and there’s something innately sexy about the way Harry pulls it off. Not that Zayn cares or anything.

A black SUV pulls up next to Zayn and it takes a moment for him to realize the driver is talking to him through one of the open windows. “Mr. Malik?”

Zayn turns in a full circle, one hand on his chest. “Yeah?”

The driver is a middle aged man and he scratches his forehead, “You ordered an UberSelect, correct?”

“Just like, uh, normal Uber I think.” He pats his hands over his pants pocket in search of his phone but Harry comes closer to see what’s going on.

He starts giggling looking at the SUV with tinted black windows and shiny exterior. “You ordered a luxury SUV,” he says, smiling wide and reaching for the door, “And we’re taking it.”

Zayn blinks at the driver before he parrots what Harry says, “We’ll take it.”

In the back of the car they sit right next to each other though there is plenty of space to spread apart. Harry twists one of his ankles around Zayn’s as he talks to the driver, asking annoying questions about if he’s had a busy night and how he likes being a driver. Zayn rolls his eyes and focuses on making sure the food isn’t spilling, half-convinced Harry is actually curious about the answers to his questions.

“I can’t believe you bought us a fancy car,” Harry whispers as they start the drive up to the Waverly, his voice low against Zayn’s ear sending senseless chills down his neck.

“Makes me feel like a bloody celebrity,” he says, whispering right into Harry’s cheek and fighting to keep his eyes open.

“We’re really fucked up.” Harry turns to look at him with the same heaviness in his eyes, their faces only a whisper away in the darkness of the car.

Zayn can’t even agree before the car stops and they jostle against each other, the driver clearing his throat.

“Thank you, sir.” Harry tips an imaginary hat as they get out before gasping and lunging back towards the car for their bag of food.

Zayn folds with laughter when Harry slams the car door again, “God, I hope your protect your future children the way you just protected that take out.”

“Did I mention I’m hungry?” He walks past Zayn and towards the front doors, running his hand back through his hair again. Zayn’s starting to think it’s an addictive habit for him.

“Come to my room to eat?” He asks it over his shoulder, opening up the front doors to the inn.

“Yeah, sure.” Zayn notices the woman at the front desk is the same as that afternoon and he smiles at her, winking far more exaggerated than earlier and waiting for her to do it back. She smiles slowly as she does it, laughing afterwards while Harry leads the way to the lift. 

“What’s that about then?” Harry stabs the button a few too many times to call the lift, “Are you having a fling with the front desk girl?”

Zayn laughs and shakes his head, “You jealous?”

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugs and steps into the elevator, “You’ve never winked at me like that.”

Running his hands over his face for dramatic effect, Zayn does his best smolder before he winks at Harry. He does it again when Harry just stares blankly at him.

“Eh, I don’t feel anything.” He presses the fourth floor button and clearly tries not to laugh when Zayn stares him down. 

Off the elevator, Harry starts down the hallway to the left before turning abruptly and walking the other direction. “Forgot what room,” he mutters, smirking when Zayn bumps into him in the confusion.

Zayn takes the food bag from his hand so Harry can get his key out, both of them laughing a little too hard when Harry struggles to get his wallet out of the back pocket of his pants. “Little bit tight,” he whispers once he gets it out, hair falling in his face as he leans towards the door.

Zayn doesn’t mention that the floral pants make his ass look great, something he never thought he’d say about anything covered in the floral print that really belongs on a bedspread. Retrieving his mind from the gutter after the thought of bedspreads is a difficult feat and a testament to the severity of his most recent dry spell on romantic and sexual fronts equally.

A giggle that can only be described as bubbling brings him back to Harry in front of him, holding a silver card up. “I’ve been trying to open the door with my bank card,” he says, words broken up with laughter.

“That’s definitely not going to work, babe.” Zayn feels a punch of affection as Harry puts the card back in the correct pocket and then studies the inside of his wallet for the correct one.

“You find it,” he says after a moment and Zayn exchanges the food bag for the wallet, poking around the cards and ignoring the condom tucked behind Harry’s I.D.

For some reason he doesn’t jump when Harry runs his finger lighting over his cheekbone, just lifts his gaze to meet Harry’s. He isn’t one to register eye colors, can’t even properly say what color Louis’ eyes are after seven years, but he sees the green in Harry’s just then, almost mossy in the dimmer lighting of the hotel hallway.

“What?” Zayn whispers the word, mouth dry. He blames the vodka. 

“You have really pretty eyelashes,” Harry says, his finger still drawing lightly under Zayn’s eye. 

Zayn has to clear his throat before he responds, settles on, “Thank you,” since his mind has gone blank of anything else.

Harry’s hand draws down the side of his face to rest against his neck, thumb tracing under his ear as they stand there. Zayn’s positive they look ridiculous, him holding the wallet and Harry swinging around a bag of Thai food. Zayn knows he’s swinging it by the way it swishes against his pants leg every so often. He’s sure the woman downstairs is watching them on a security camera, probably thinking they’re a safety hazard at this point.

The thoughts barely register and wash away before Harry is leaning in, closer until Zayn’s vision goes blurry and all he focuses on is Harry’s lips against his, light and smooth. His pulse jolts and he can hear the blood thrum in his eardrums as Harry kisses him again and Zayn tilts his head back just slightly.

He’s hesitant, mind racing around before pausing over _why not._ He hasn’t let himself have something, something ridiculous and meaningless like this, in too long.

There’s nothing wrong with spending one night with a fit guy and Harry must agree if the way he trails his tongue over Zayn’s bottom lip is any indication. Zayn’s lets his hesitancy melt away, his free hand twisting up into Harry’s hair as he pulls himself closer, kisses him back with heat, parting his lips to make way for Harry’s tongue against his.

When Harry rolls his hips forward and Zayn has to bite down on his own gasp, he pulls away with one hand pressed against Harry's chest. He can feel each breath Harry takes, shuttering but steady.

"We need to find the damn key card," he says, realizing too late he's said it with his eyes on Harry's lips and not his eyes.

Harry nods and Zayn starts looking in the wallet again, trying to ignore Harry right next to him, clearly trying to adjust his pants and catch his breath. Zayn feels the same way, focuses on breathing for a steady moment.

Not for the first time that night, Harry's cackling laughter makes Zayn look up.

"It was in my pocket," he says in disbelief holding up the card with Waverly embossed across the front of it.

"Of course it was." Zayn rolls his eyes and gestures with the wallet, "Now open the door."

Harry's room might as well be a duplicate of Zayn's except for a light purple, floral suit hanging on the outside of the closet. Zayn points it out immediately, "And that is?"

"My wedding outfit," Harry says easily not catching the tone of Zayn's voice or choosing to ignore it.

Zayn snorts with one more glance at the suit before crossing towards the forest green couch against the long wall. Harry is already there, setting the bag of food down on the side table and starting to take out the containers.

"Aren't you supposed to let the bride have her moment at the wedding? Everyone else is supposed to look drab in comparison." He doesn't realize how close behind Harry's he's gotten until Harry turns and the same shock comes over his face before it settles into more of a smirk, one corner of his lips lifted.

"That sounds like the beginning of a compliment."

"Really?" Zayn swallows, lifts his hand to push Harry's hair back behind his ear without really thinking about it. "Because that was the middle and end of it as well."

Harry laughs and Zayn doesn't take his hand away from his face, puts his thumb against his dimple just because he can. "Fuck." Harry's voice is low, "You're really fit."

He might as well say go for the way Zayn reacts, pressing closer to him and kissing his lips, holding his head between his hands. Harry must not expect the force as he stumbles on the side of the couch before pushing Zayn back against it, bodies pressed together.

It should be terribly awkward, clunky and uncomfortable like when Zayn was fourteen and lost his balance during his first kiss, instead he starts laughing against Harry’s neck feeling rather than hearing Harry’s laughter too. Zayn lifts his head to look at Harry’s face, sees the ghost of laughter still there before it melts into something more serious as he bites his lips and blinks slowly at Zayn. Whatever it is about the switch sends a zip through Zayn's stomach, makes him want Harry _now, now, now._

He reaches for his face and then they're kissing again, the weight of Harry’s body against Zayn's making his breath come short but only in the way it should. His hands tangle through Harry's hair to pull him closer, lips tasting his cheek and down to his mouth, across his jaw only to punch out a breathy sound when he drags his teeth along Harry's neck.

It's been long, too long, since Zayn last felt like this, like if he stops to catch his breath he'll burn from the inside out, like he needs to push closer and hold harder, desperation coloring the way his hips lift from the couch for each time Harry presses down.

Lost in the speed and heat, he barely realizes Harry is speaking, fragments of words filtering in a haze and then all at once.

"You're just so pretty, like, so fit. And I don't usually do this," he goes quiet when he drags his lips along Zayn's neck and down over his collar, undoing the top button of his shirt like he's on the same desperate strand Zayn is. "And I think everyone probably says that but it's true this time, for me, I mean." He's rambling and when he lifts his head Zayn can see his eyebrows drawing together like he's really thinking through something. The concentration makes him want to laugh but he chooses to pull Harry closer instead, kissing him quiet or at least until he's panting instead of talking.

"And, like, I really like you and I've had a lot of fun tonight--"

"Shut up," Zayn throws his head back, when Harry presses his hips forward again. "Shut up, Harry."

Harry pushes his hair back from his face and blinks at Zayn repeatedly like he's seeing him for the first time. "What?"

Zayn reaches for the top button on Harry’s shirt and undoes it, followed by the second, never taking his gaze away. "I'm pretty sure your inner monologue was just coming out of your mouth."

Harry grins and it's kind of dopey and a little hot, "Oops."

"Less talking," Zayn says, one finger tracing the center of Harry's chest where he can clearly see the two inked birds sitting. He lifts his finger to drag against Harry's bottom lip, "There's better things for your mouth to do."

He half means it as a joke, as a continuation of their banter but then Harry bites the pad of his finger, draws his teeth back slightly and Zayn doesn't think anyone is joking around anymore.

Harry's mouth is against his again as their hips pick up a rhythm. The heat between them is searing, Zayn's dress pants and shirt feeling constrictive and when he brings his hands up to Harry's ass and presses him right where he wants him, he knows Harry feels it too, the way they both gasp when their cocks press together through the fabric. 

Zayn's hands draw up and down Harry's back as the desperation gives way to something sloppy both of them breathing against the other's parted lips, eyes blurry because their faces are so close.

"Do not make," Harry gasps when Zayn squeeze his butt again, "Do not make me come in my designer pants like this."

Hand to heart, Zayn cackles at Harry's words but he doesn't lose focus, untucking Harry’s black shirt from the floral pants to feel his heated skin, the swell of his hips beneath his fingers. His fingertips barely brush under the waistband and Harry bites his ear, sends chills straight down his back. He fumbles with the front of Harry's pants while Harry messes with his, lifts his hips as he tries to get off the snap and undo the zip, the jostling only creating more friction between them as they struggle to stay on the couch.

Harry gets a hand on Zayn first, at least that's what he thinks as his vision goes white, and his back curves.

Zayn groans from low in throat as Harry's hand twists and he still can't remember the last time he felt this good. Like a fire in his stomach, licking all the way to his toes and the back of his throat in the sweetest way. Not always the selfish one, Zayn hooks his fingers in the side of Harry's pants to tug them lower, enough so he can reach for Harry and palm against him, tease two fingers from his base to his tip. It's too much of a tease and not enough all at once and Harry must agree as he comes up on his knees to get his pants halfway down his thighs before collapsing on top of Zayn again, working him in his hand and placing sloppy kisses along his jaw.

Again Zayn tries to focus on Harry but comes up short, the fire in his stomach collecting into a ball, more and more concentrated until his eyes roll back in his head and his toes curl against the soles of his shoes.

"Don't stop, please." He breathes the words against the side of Harry's cheek. Harry makes a sound against his neck and then bites his skin, not hard enough to bruise but enough for Zayn to come, his back arching up and hands grasping the sides of Harry's flower trousers to hold him closer. The brightest flame dances behind his eyes, white and purple around the edges giving way to darkness as the fizzy feeling floats down around him, smoother as his breathing evens.

Slowly he registers Harry's lips against his neck and then his hips right on Zayn's thigh, rubbing against him in a focused thrusting motion. He shouldn't laugh, not when he knows what it's like to be the last to get off but he does anyway, his eyelids heavier than they've been all night.

"C'mere, babe." He adjusts so Harry is back between his legs but doesn't move more than that, sliding his hand between their bodies to jerk him, letting his sounds muffle against his neck, the slight gasps and the heavier groans. When Harry comes his whole body shows it, his teeth biting down and hips pressing forward, one leg bending haphazardly at the knee before he goes completely still, warm breath on Zayn's neck and Zayn's sticky hand still between them.

Harry makes a gentle sound of protest when Zayn does pull his hand back, probably because he manages to smear come across Harry’s stomach and possibly the bottom of his shirt. Zayn rubs his clean hand along Harry’s back, reveling in the weight of his body, like a perpetual hug. He becomes slightly alarmed when he thinks Harry has passed out on top of him but then Harry lifts his head to look him in the eye. His cheeks are pink, his lips are red and his eyes are hooded, hair a complete mess. Zayn’s pretty sure he looks the exact same without quite the beard burn along his jaw. That’s a Harry exclusive.

“Zayn,” he whispers, and Zayn feels his breath against the bottom of his chin.

  
Zayn doesn’t quite have the energy to speak, raises his eyebrows instead.

“I’m even more hungry now.” There’s a pause after the words before they both start laughing, chests puffing out against each other.

“Get off me then.” Zayn wiggles his body and Harry gets the point, rolling to the floor with a thump. Zayn can’t help but roll  his eyes as Harry collapses onto his stomach on the ground before crawling up on all fours to pull himself upright. Absolutely ridiculous.

They eat sprawled on Harry's bed, Zayn on his stomach and Harry on his side with the TV playing lowly in the background.

After they cleaned themselves up, Zayn got rid of just his shoes before getting on the bed but Harry stripped down to just his boxers not bothering to rebutton his shirt fully which has left him looking like some sort of sultry underwear model save for the pad thai he keeps smearing across his lips. The floral trousers have been tossed next to the couch in an unceremonious heap followed by the scarf Harry had tied around his neck.

Their conversation meanders as they eat from the way the late night news broadcaster has haphazardly put on his toupee to how Zayn has meticulously not eaten any of the peanut bits in his peanut chicken.

"Are you allergic?" Harry asks as soon as he notices.

"Deathly," Zayn mumbles around a bite of noodles. "Which is why I'm eating peanut sauce and the chicken that touched the nut chunks. Death wish."

Harry chooses to ignore the sarcasm in favor of focusing on _nut chunks_ which he repeats and giggles about until he nearly chokes on his food.

Fight Club comes on after the late news and they both watch half heartedly until Harry falls asleep with his face tucked in the bedding and Zayn can’t keep his eyes open.

He carefully takes away Harry's garbage and the fork positioned precariously near his eye and then throws his own paper box in the tiny hotel garbage. He opens one of the windows to let the fried smell out of the room before stretching and surveying Harry's body stretched along the bed, only feeling mildly creepy.

An internal debate halfheartedly rages about whether he’s supposed to leave or sleep on the couch, perhaps the floor, or go back to his own room which suddenly feels light years away. He glances towards the couch and has a vivid flashback to what Harry had so astutely wanted to discuss only an hour earlier while they were eating -- "How much jizz do you think is on that couch?"

Zayn goes for the bathroom instead, splashing cool water on his face and snagging some of Harry's toothpaste from his very classy leather toiletry bag. He brushes his teeth with his finger and pokes around the bag to see what else is in there. Besides floss, nail clippers and more condoms, he’s not very impressed.

After he rinses his mouth,  he turns out the light and takes off his shirt and pants deciding that if he's staying in Harry's room he's really going to go for it. Down to his socks and boxers, he gets back on the bed with his head on the pillows and his feet down by where Harry's face is. Absently, he hopes they don’t kick each other in the face while they sleep.

 ♥

Morning comes sooner than Zayn expects or at least the sun comes unfiltered through the window before he’s ready. 

The first thing he focuses on is the camera set on the side table nearest his head, plugged into the wall to charge along with a bulky black case. His eyes slide to the purple suit still hanging from the wardrobe -- the one thing he definitely  didn’t miss the night before. Slowly his mind registers the dryness in his mouth and aches in his bones, the pounding of tiny men in his head.

He rolls onto his back to be met with Harry’s feet which is a jolt of reality. He reaches his hands over his head in a stretch, faced with the roadblock of how to deal with a one night stand. It’s usually awkward the morning after, someone trying to sneak out while the other pretends not to notice. The thing is, Zayn is pretty comfortable and the thought of moving off the bed is not appealing in the least.

Harry points his toes in his sleep and pulls his knees up closer to his body and -- Zayn really does need to leave. He definitely doesn’t want Harry to have to ask him to go and he’s never been one to stick around for breakfast and a follow-up blow job. Breakfast and blow jobs are established relationship material despite what Louis may say.

Zayn gets a head rush as he stands up and his mouth is suddenly drier as he pokes around for the clothes he took off the night before.

He doesn’t notice Harry is awake until he speaks, his voice rough with sleep and somehow enough to make Zayn’s cock interested which is completely embarrassing and uncalled for especially considering Harry’s words are, “It smells like Thai food and man in here.” Which, yes, is true. It’s an earthy smell if Zayn had to name it, not one he would bottle.

“I opened the window to try to air it out.” Zayn gestures towards the window and then rubs at his head, as if that has ever cured a headache before. Harry shrugs one shoulder before he drags himself up off the bed too, disappearing into the bathroom and shutting the door halfway.

Zayn finds his pants first and puts those on while considering if Harry will ever re-emerge from the bathroom or stay hidden in there until Zayn leaves first. This won’t be the first time a hookup has hidden from him, an unfortunate statistic he wasn’t planning to add to.

The toilet flushes and the sink runs then, long enough for Zayn to put on his shirt that he’s still halfway buttoning when Harry reappears, running his hands through his hair and trying to tame it with his fingers. “Good morning, by the way,” he says.

“Morning.” Zayn looks up from his buttoning to watch Harry carry his suitcase towards the bed, unzipping it and flipping it open the next moment. He grins when he sees Zayn watching him before pulling out a pair of black jeans and shaking them out. Zayn continues getting dressed watching out of the corner of his eye as Harry does too, black jeans and a grey sweater, a blue beanie like when Zayn saw him on the train before.

Zayn sits on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes, Harry sits on the couch and struggles with a pair of caramel brown boots. He doesn't want to intrude but he’s a little curious as to where Harry is suddenly going considering he’d been asleep when Zayn got up. He finishes with his shoe and stands right as Harry does the same.

“Ready?”

Zayn tries not to be taken aback. It doesn’t work. “For what?”

“Brunch.”  Harry smiles as he walks towards the door, sliding his key card from the TV cabinet and into the pocket of his pants.

Zayn squints as he tries to rewind through their night for any discussion of brunch but quickly comes up empty. “Did we have plans?”

Harry pauses, door on the handle. “Do you not participate in brunch?

“No, like, it’s fine. I didn’t know that’s what we were doing this morning.” As the words come out he wants to roll them back up and shove them under his tongue. Never has he felt quite so square, like he needs an itinerary before partaking in activities.

“Listen, Zayn, I spend the majority of weddings by myself or making friends with old ladies who think I’m their grandson. It’s  really not as fun as it sounds. If you think I’m letting you leave me alone to face the breakfast crowd, you’re wrong.” He points his finger at Zayn, “So, brunch?”

Zayn blinks at him, twice, before he responds. His nostrils flare as he tries not to laugh at the absurdity, “I mean, yeah, sure. I’m in the same clothes from last night so as long as that’s not a problem.”

“Great.” Harry pulls open the door and leads the way into the hallway.

Brunch is hosted by the bride and groom but what that really means closing off the downstairs restaurant to wedding guests only. It’s fine with Zayn, there’s no wait time and they only have to take ten steps from the elevator.

Harry’s sister is standing guard at the door, a clipboard held against her chest and looking every bit the part of the put-together wedding planner.

“Finally!” She yells as soon as she sees them get off the elevator, glancing around before lowering her voice. “There’s been like one person down here all morning. Like, we paid a ton of money for the food in there and no one’s eating it.”

“You paid no money for the food, Gems,” Harry says when they get closer, “The bride’s family did.”

“No one cares about that. If no one is having fun, they’ll blame me and I’ll have to live on the streets with Olivia.” She looks at Zayn to add, “Olivia is my cat,” before continuing, “So, I need you to go in there and eat everything you see and just look happy,will you?”

Harry grins and Zayn smirks because it looks like the kind of smile a kid puts on when they’re forced to take a picture with their nutty aunt Jane. Gemma stares at him and she looks so glaringly like Doniya, Zayn feels a jolt as if his sister was right there with them.

“Please? Be a doll for me, Haz. I think everyone’s holed up in their room eating orange slices so they don’t bloat for the wedding.” She runs a hand back through her hair, oddly the way Harry tends to do. “Like, one pastry will not kill them. Do you know what I mean?”

She’s clearly addressing Zayn and he nods quickly -- he loves pastries but he doesn’t think that’s the question.

“This is Zayn, by the way.” Harry points at him and Gemma offers her hand. “My friend.”

Gemma’s eyes light up as she grabs Zayn’s hand, the wedding brunch forgotten momentarily. “Oh hello, Harry’s friend Zayn. Pleasure.” She leans in closer, eyes running over his face like he might not be real.

“Same,” Zayn says, cheeks turning a light pink under her inspection.

“Where did you find him?” She’s still holding Zayn’s hand but looking at Harry now.

“His sister is a friend of the bride,” Harry says, one eyebrow raised at his sister’s clear interest.

Gemma steps back and drops Zayn’s hand unceremoniously. “Oh,” she drags the word out, “I see. You mean a friend like a friend, not a friend like a _friend_. You didn’t bring him with you.”

Zayn blinks and Harry rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Gemma. Must you be embarrassing in front of strangers all the time?”

“He’s not a stranger, you just said he’s your friend,” she points out. “Honestly, semantics, all of it. Go in there and eat, please, please.”

“Whatever you say.” Harry blows her a kiss and Zayn murmurs that it was nice to meet her as he follows Harry away from the odd exchange.

“Don’t mind her. She’s been on boyfriend watch for me for the last six months,” Harry says as they walk away. “Like, obsessive -- like my eggs are all going to dry up or something.”

Zayn laughs at that, doesn’t mention the fact they touched each other’s dicks less than twelve hours before might put them in a distinctly different zone than the friends Harry led her to believe. He’s not going to push it.

Gemma seems to have over exaggerated slightly. Inside, most of the tables have people sitting at them, talking quietly and avoiding eye contact with other guests.

Another florist shop has been turned inside out to accommodate the space, garlands of roses and centerpieces making Zayn sneeze at the same time Harry sniffles and rubs at his eye. The table they find is covered with white paper and there are crayons in a vase in the middle -- Harry dumps them out before they even sit down.

“This your sister’s idea?” Zayn grabs the two menus from the center of the table and scoots the water glasses to the side as the crayons slide in every direction.

Harry shrugs, “Not sure, actually. If it was, she’s never done it before. Actually, this is probably meant to be a kid’s table.” He tugs on one side of his beanie and smiles, “Oops.”

“Do you go to a lot of weddings?” Zayn picks up an orange crayon and absently taps it against the table.

“Not a lot,” Harry says, focusing on whatever he’s drawing in front of him. “Like seven or eight a year maybe.”

Zayn laughs, “I’ve been to three in the last two years, mate.”

Harry scratches his forehead with the back of his hand and purses his lips. “Okay, maybe it’s a lot.”

When Zayn’s eyes drift down to the drawing he’s working on, he flings his arm around the space to block his view.

“What? I just want to see what you’re making.”

“No peeking.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and sets the orange crayon back down in exchange for a green, smirking at Harry’s intense focus and the crease forming between his eyes

A waiter shows up a short while later, seemingly perturbed by the amount of drawings adorning their table and their lack of decisiveness on any of the choices on the menu. Harry's input is mimosas and Zayn mentions he wants a cinnamon roll and then the waiter is off, clearly not waiting for them to consult the menu any longer.

They eat a breakfast suited for a kid, sans the champagne, on a table exploding with color, particularly where they’ve scribbled over each other's drawings with reckless abandon.

"I can't believe you get paid to be an artist and yet you have no courtesy for a fellow artist's work," Harry's voice is on the edge of a laugh as he swats at Zayn with a crayon while Zayn draws something that distinctly looks like a dick on top of his landscape coloring.

“I buy artwork, technically,” Zayn says. “And I’m not sure I would buy yours. I can't believe you’re responsble teaching the young artists of the world when you draw like a giant bear holding a crayon for the first time." Zayn slaps at Harry's hand, laughing when he realizes Harry is giggling so hard he's gone silent.

Gemma comes rushing over just then, two plates in her hands. "I tell you to eat and you order cinnamon rolls and mimosas," she aggressively whispers to them before setting down the plates. Each one is piled with crepes, berries, whipped cream, potatoes and sausage in a strange smorgasboard of selections. "No help at all, the both of you. 

There’s a waiter behind her who sets down two more mimosas with a sheepish smile before backing away slowly.

“We’ll eat it, calm down.” Harry pats her hand and laughs when she pulls it back quickly. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t rain on the ceremony, eh?”

She turns to leave but not before she rolls her eyes. “You’re not funny,” she calls over her shoulder as she prances away, straightening one of the tables as she goes.

“That’s all people talk about at weddings,” Harry says, picking up a strawberry and dropping it in his mimosa. “If it’s going to rain and ruin everything or be too hot and ruin everything.” Zayn’s all too familiar with the concept but Harry’s drawl makes him laugh. “Seriously. Last summer there was a ceremony with ice sculptures that were melting before it even started. It was like the statues were crying and shrinking all at once.”

“Did the bride’s mum hit the roof again?”

Harry bites his lip, “Nope. Groom’s father did though and you want to know why?” He doesn’t wait for Zayn’s answer, “He hand sculpted each statue.”

“Really shouldn’t have gone for the summer wedding, then.”

“Honestly. The best part was when the groom looked at me and says, ‘Is there anything you can do?’. Like, let me just go get my fucking ice machine out of my car.” He rolls his eyes and takes a drink from his mimosa as Zayn tries to stop laughing, finding it harder as he imagines Harry in the situation.

Harry pokes his crayon at the drawing in front of him, "I've never had an eye for drawing.”

Zayn's nose crinkles, "It's not for everyone."

"Oh but I wanted it to be," Harry says on a laugh. “I could always imagine what I wanted something to look like but as soon as my pencil hit the page,” he claps his hands, “A huge unidentifiable mess. It just never clicked. That’s why I got into photography in the first place. Everything is already there, I just adjust the vision. 

“You teach your class art, don’t you? Don’t tell me you’ve got students all running around with cameras too,” he places his hand over his heart, almost wounded.

“You’d be amazed what these hands can do.” He wiggles his fingers and Zayn chokes on his mimosa all at once. “Finger painting,” Harry says when Zayn’s still spluttering, “of course. Any time you want to take over my art lesson, feel free.”

“Maybe I will,” Zayn says, forgetting to acknowledge the lie there.

Sufficiently full of food they didn’t order and slightly  buzzed off mimosas, they head out of the restaurant, Zayn’s stomach suddenly fizzing. In an unexpected twist of the morning, he doesn’t want to leave Harry.

Reasonably, he knows Harry has things to attend to for the wedding, not an ordinary guest like Zayn but, still, the way things have been going he can only imagine the kind of travesty it will be for Harry to leave him. It seems like the peak of a romance novel when, really, Zayn just wants to keep Harry near him for platonic reasons like his warmth and quick humor, the way he makes Zayn feel comfortable by doing nothing at all. 

“So,” Zayn starts when they’re waiting at the lifts, Harry pressing the call button. He feels like he’s waiting for a goodbye and even though he knows it’s coming, inevitable, he wants it to slow down.

“Would you want to be my date?” Harry fills in the pause after Zayn’s beginning. “I might be rather boring, I have to take a lot of pictures but, you know,” he shrugs like his heart isn’t in it but Zayn can see the heat rushing up his neck, “We’re both going anyway. Could be fun.”

Zayn aims for the same nonchalance, fails and has to bite his lip over a smile. “Yeah, sure. Could be fun.”

♥

Harry’s right.

He does have a lot to do at the wedding, running around before the ceremony even starts, taking pictures of the aisle and the arch over the front pew and the flower arrangements on the aisle seats and then adjusting the things Gemma can’t reach or can’t be bothered to do herself. At one point Zayn watches Harry on all fours pulling out a section of weeds near one of the chairs in the front row, his face red by the time he stands up and swipes the knees of his suit for grass remnants.

 _His suit_ is the purple phenomenon he’d had hanging in his room, lavender with black shadows of flowers covering the jacket and pants both. Zayn had opted for a more subtle look of black pants and a white dress shirt with his suit jacket. Admittedly, Harry had kind of took his breath away when they’d met in the lobby of the hotel earlier with his hair in soft waves and his camera strapped across his chest, a dimpling smile when he caught sight of Zayn too.

Zayn figures that might just be a thing about Harry, his fashions choices -- like the way he talks with his hands or the slow drawl of his voice --  that will always be a little off but striking all the same. If Zayn were to be in a purple suit, self conscious wouldn’t begin to cut it.

Fancy wedding that it is, there are golf carts to take everyone from the inn out to the secluded field where the actual ceremony is taking place. Harry and Zayn took one together, both waving as Doniya came out the front doors with three other girls, all talking loudly over each other.

As soon as they were dropped off, Gemma intercepted Harry. Before he left though, he turned to Zayn and asked if he could save him a seat. Zayn agreed before promptly finding the two seats in the furthest back corner on the bride’s side for them.

There are dark storm clouds in the far off distance and Zayn counts no less than ten people who point at them before whispering to each other. Judging by the looks on their faces, weddings in the rain might as well invalidate marriages. Two older women gape at the clouds before turning worried eyes on each other and then trotting off towards where Gemma is talking to a group of bridesmaids.

“Mothers of the bride and groom,” Harry says from behind Zayn, moving into the aisle to sit down next to him. “Worried about the rain as per usual. Probably think my sister will be able to control it, might start crying if it turns out she can’t.”

“Has it ever actually rained at a wedding you’ve been to?”

Harry shakes his head. “Sadly, no. Fingers crossed I get to see it once. Could you have picked further seats by the way, I’m going to need hearing aids back here.”

The rain never comes and Gemma is a genius when it comes to acoustics because Zayn can hear every word of the ceremony once it starts. Every prayer and wish of gratitude, every strangely personal vow with intimate details that feel as if they should have been kept secrets rather than broadcast to an audience. He feels invasive without trying.

Mid-way through it starts to drag on and he settles for adjusting his rings, sliding them on alternating fingers just to try them out. When he hears a sniffle next to him, his head snaps up. Leave it to Harry, the cynical king of wedding attendance to be the one crying. He sneezes right when Zayn looks at him, a sound he barely muffles into the arm of his ridiculous suit. Not quite crying, then.

“I’m allergic to, like, fifteen types of flowers,” he says once the people around them have stopped staring daggers.

Zayn can’t help the laugh that escapes though he tries to cover it with his hand. He hasn’t sneezed once since they left the hotel, remembered to take his allergy pill while he was getting ready earlier. Harry looks miserable though, eyes red and watery and his nose twitchy. He sneezes again and a woman in the row directly in front of them clears her throat, throwing a pointed look in their direction. Harry sneezes two more times within the next minute and Zayn thinks the woman might get up out of her chair and hit him.

“He has allergies,” Zayn whispers leaning forward. “It’s not his fault.”

Harry’s eyes are wide when Zayn sits back up. “Defending me to little old ladies,” he says out the corner of his mouth, “Heart be still.”

“Oh, shut up.” He nudges Harry in the ribs which makes him squeak. That gets three people to turn in their seats and look at them. Zayn smiles with all of his teeth and Harry sneezes again. He doesn’t think they’re doing a great job at making friends.

Once the ceremony is over the entire crowd moves towards high vaulted white tents set up across the field as the sun barely begins to set. It smells like summer and fresh cut grass, reminds Zayn of being a little kid outside of the city walls.

“What do you think?” Zayn nudges Harry with his arm. “You think it’s going to rain?”

Harry drops his head back to stare at the clouds, moving in slowly over head and spreading evenly. He sighs loudly and over the top, “I hope not. Those tents are cloth.”

The couple walking next to them looks over with their eyebrows raised before turning to each other to whisper frantically.

Zayn laughs and bites his lip, “Are they really?”

Harry shrugs, “Doubt it. Who would use cloth tents at an outdoor wedding?”

Duty calls to Harry once again under the tents and he’s off taking pictures during the reception, adjusting little things as he goes, skirting around guests each time Gemma looks at him with something akin to panic across her face.

Doniya drags Zayn through the receiving line when she spots him at the bar, thought the bride and groom look exhausted by the time they get close to them. Zayn finds it darkly interesting to watch the way the bride’s smile drops in between greeting each group before she pastes it back on a moment later.

Once he’s given his best wishes, a smile and a kiss on the cheek his mum would be proud of, he circles away from Doniya and back to the bar where he’s disappointed by the option of wine and champagne with no hard alcohol anywhere to be found.

“The bride doesn’t want guests to get trashed, evidently,” the bartender says with a wry smile as she uncorks another bottle of wine. “Or have fun but, you know,” she winks, “That’s a personal opinion.”

Zayn takes two glasses of wine back towards an empty table in the far corner of the tent. It’s becoming his wedding trademark to be as far away from everything as possible. He doesn't feel bad about it. He sets one glass at the setting next to him, saving it for Harry if he ever decides to sit down. He sips his wine as he watches him across the tent, his eye catching onto his purple suit even when he doesn't try.

For all his bitterness towards weddings, Harry seems unfazed as the night progresses. Everyone he stops to talk with seems to laugh with their entire face, others leaning forward like they can't help themselves. Even though Zayn lays no claim on him, he still feels a little on edge watching, like all of these people might take Harry away -- the bridesmaid who touches his arm while they talk, one of the groomsmen who seems a little too drunk as he leans in closer and closer, Harry taking steps backwards to retract the distance. Zayn can feel his warmth across the room, not in a tangible way but just in how he adjusts the bow in the flower girl's hair and manages to make Gemma laugh when she looks ready to hit him in the face just a moment before.

When Harry doesn't stop by and Zayn finishes his own glass of wine, he picks up the one meant for Harry and heads for the buffet. It feels a bit like being the youngest at a uni party, wandering around and unsure where to go -- someone is giving a toast near the front of the tent, but he can't bring himself to pay much attention.  

Some of the food at the buffet-- like a fruit salad consisting of frighteningly too much cantaloupe and unidentifiable blobs on a platter-- makes him weary, but there's a good selection of baked chicken, pasta salad, finger foods that he still manages to heap a plate full. He's figuring out how to fit a doughy roll somewhere in his assortment when there's warm air against his ear smelling like stale vodka and wine. He cringes.

"Hey, beautiful."

Zayn takes a step away from the voice before he turns around to face it, finding one of the groomsmen, the same one who had been talking to Harry earlier, with a sleazy grin standing a bit too close to be polite.

"Hello." Zayn nods and takes a bite of the roll in his hand -- no reason to fit it on the plate if he can just eat it right here.

"You should come back to my room with me," the guy says, scratching at his head in a decidedly unsexy way.

"Probably not."

"Really? We could have a lot of fun."

Zayn shrugs, "Again, probably not." The guy seems a bit put off to be rejected so directly.

"There you are!" Zayn takes another bite of his bread as Harry comes from the other side of the buffet, eyes set on Zayn, his camera held in his hand.

"Here I am." Zayn smiles slowly wondering if maybe Harry has been sneaking some drinks while he's been doing his "job".

Harry slides his arm around Zayn's waist and presses his mouth against his ear, "Hi." For some reason his warm breath makes goose bumps lift on his neck, unlike the groomsman -- who, Zayn notices, is still standing there looking rather unimpressed at Harry holding onto Zayn.

"You again," he says. Zayn thinks he's talking to him at first-- that he has somehow offended this stranger--but his focus is on Harry. 

"Me again," Harry sing-songs back to him with a big shit-eating grin. Zayn has no idea what's going on.

"You're together, then?" The guy sighs and crosses his arm as if he's just gotten word Santa is not, in fact, real.

"Engaged, even," Harry says, kissing Zayn's cheek with a smacking sound. He holds up his hand with a ring around the middle finger, and nothing on his ring finger.

Zayn looks at him as if to say, "Really?" before he takes another bite of bread and smiles, close-lipped. The groomsman stalks away without saying anything further and Zayn watches him go as he chews. 

"Sorry," Harry says, without moving away from Zayn, fingers tapping against his hip. "I talked to that guy earlier and he just said he wanted to get laid tonight. Seems like a loser."

Zayn puts the other half of the roll on his plate where it now fits perfectly. "Harry Styles, were you protecting my virtue? I'll have you know I was holding my own before you decided you needed to save me."

"What?" Harry tilts his head and takes a step back, "No, not at all. I was making sure you knew he was a sleazeball before you agreed to anything."

"So if I went after him right now, you'd have nothing to say?” Harry shakes his head but his lips tucked in his mouth give him away. "Really?" Zayn raises his eyebrows. "Because I definitely thought he was fit."

Harry fish mouths, clearly at a loss, the top of his cheeks turning pink. "I didn't mean to -- Zayn, I'm so sorry."

He seems so genuine Zayn almost feels bad -- almost. "Ah, shut up. I'd pick you over him any day."

Harry sticks his tongue in his cheek and looks down at the ground before meeting Zayn's eyes again. "I mean this with all due respect, fuck you." He straightens his suit jacket and tucks his hair behind his ear, nose scrunching. "Now, what do you say we get out of here before this freesia makes me need an epipen."

Zayn has no idea what the flowers hanging around the buffet table are called but he takes Harry's word on it. "What about food? I'm hungry, you know."

"Bring it," he says. "I'm not kidnapping you, I just can't be in this tent anymore. Not to mention I'm eating some of that." He points at Zayn's plate and then bites his lip, "Can you put some fruit salad on there? I love cantaloupe."

"Of course you do," Zayn mutters rearranging his carb heavy plate to make room for the fruit salad. Harry wanders away to the bar while Zayn adds another piece of chicken to the plate and another two rolls since the half he's eaten so far was good.

He waits for Harry at the edge of one of the tents, grinning when Harry holds up a bottle of wine, his camera hanging from his shoulder. “How’d you manage that?”

“I asked nicely,” he says, leading the way across the field, away from the tents. Somehow Zayn thinks it may have taken a bit more than that.

“Are you done with wedding duties, then?” Evening has more than fallen across the venue, the tent lit by fairy lights and lanterns behind them.

“Think so.” Harry corrects their path so they follow a gravel trail edged with mason jars with candles in them. “There’s a limited number of ways to take pictures of flowers and cake, you know?”

“Oh, obviously,” Zayn says, smiling when Harry rolls his eyes at him. “Where are we going? You have a secret hiding place in the middle of nowhere?”

“Most weddings, I’ve learned, have hidden spaces away from the reception and whether that’s for quiet time or for people to get each other off, I’m not fully sure.”

“Yeah? What do you use these secret places for, then?”

“Both.” Harry has the shit-eating grin again and Zayn has to pretend he doesn’t feel the irrational tug of jealousy in his stomach -- Harry is definitely not his to be jealous of.

Through one of the clearings, they come up on a lighted gazebo next to a stream without another soul in sight.

“Usually, if you come before the first dance, most places are still deserted,” Harry says sitting on the top step of the porch surrounding the gazebo, setting his camera down carefully and then the wine.

“I feel like you could be some Casanova wedding crasher when in reality you’re just the wedding planner’s little brother.” Zayn sits next to him, setting the food between them.

“You flatter me too much, Zayn. It’ll go to my head.” He picks up the camera and clicks around a couple of things which Zayn feels is borderline pretentious considering his iPhone works perfectly fine as a camera. Before he can tell Harry this, there’s the echo of a shutter as Harry takes the camera down from his face.

“Did you just take my picture?” Zayn grabs for the camera as Harry pulls back.

“No.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” he says, snagging Harry’s wrist and pulling it towards him. Harry goes easy, relaxes his grip on the camera so Zayn can take it.

“Careful,” Harry says, “That’s half my pay your holding in your hands.” Zayn holds it tighter, knows the feeling of pouring a bit too much money into something just to create art. If a picture of him can even be considered art is not up for debate.

“How do you work this thing anyway?” Zayn lifts the camera and blinks too hard against the viewfinder. It stings like a cut and he winces. “Not that way,” he mutters pulling it a little further away. Through the lens he can see Harry, lips pursed as he watches him, not unlike Zayn’s cousins look at him when he’s holding their children.

“Click the button on top,” Harry in the viewfinder says, nodding his head upwards slightly.

Zayn does as instructed, the shutter clicking again before pulling away to look at the screen. He barks out a laugh as he turns the screen towards Harry, “Not planning to change my day job any time soon.” Harry in the picture is covered in shadows he can’t even see just looking at him and the lights adorning the gazebo look more like fireballs.

Harry bites his lip and leans closer to Zayn. His hair smells like strawberries and Zayn pretends he doesn’t notice. “You have to adjust this,” he says quietly, as he messes with some of the buttons and then twists something on the front lens, “Because it’s dark outside and because there’s strange back lighting.”

Zayn doesn’t follow but he nods like he does.

“Now try.” Harry sits back and lets Zayn hold the camera again. Zayn lifts it and the Harry in the lens has his brow furrowed, lips pushed out. His expression doesn’t change as Zayn clicks the shutter but this time Zayn doesn’t take the camera away from his face.

“We’re not at a bloody funeral, Harry, stop looking like that.” There’s a rush of surprise over Harry’s features, his lips parting and Zayn clicks the shutter and then Harry grins and Zayn captures that too -- can’t help but think the change looks like sunshine coming from behind the clouds, promises to never say that out loud.

Harry reaches for the camera to study the screen, tilting it towards Zayn. “These look good,” he smiles, “Not to call myself a model or anything.” He flicks back his hair and Zayn smirks.

He doesn’t dignify a response and reaches for the wine instead, pulling on the loosely set cork.

“I asked for a red,” Harry says as Zayn takes a sip from the bottle, “But I’m not sure if she went for sweet or what. 

Zayn coughs a little as he sets the bottle down, “Dry. Definitely went dry with this one.” He grabs a cracker from the plate between them, hoping to cleanse his palate as Harry reaches for a piece of chicken. He takes a bite and smears the sauce across his chin before wiping it off with the back of his wrist and narrowly avoiding the sleeve of his jacket.

“What’s your beef with weddings?” Zayn takes another sip from the bottle before he draws his attention back to Harry. “The matrimony part or the actual celebration part?”

Harry sets down the piece of chicken and licks his lips, “You know, I quite like the fancy party part of it all. As you can see I have excellent fashion choices for such events.”

Zayn grins at the self deprecation there, and Harry smiles softly.

“My thing is the matrimony and the forever part.” He looks up and Zayn waits, knows there’s more there that Harry is just debating saying. “My parents got divorced when I was a kid and it felt like the end of the world. I mean, I was seven so not getting ice cream for dessert was also world ending.”

“And now?” Zayn’s not one to speak on the subject, his parents are happily married and have been as long as he can remember.

“They get along great now actually. Or, like, sometimes they do. Not always. But when my dad first left, my mum took down all of his pictures like he’d died and threw her wedding ring out into our back garden one night while she was crying. It’s stuff like that where I’m kind of like, well, where’s the fun in that? What was the point?" 

Zayn nods, he can get that.

“If you like someone, great. If you want to spend the rest of your life with them, great. But, like, why the big legal to-do and stress on everyone only for it to crumble a part.”

“You’re awfully pessimistic aren’t you?” Zayn laughs when Harry glares at him. “Do you not believe in soul mates and happily ever after?”

Harry shakes his head, “Nope. I mean, I don’t want to be alone forever. Like, I’m sure I’ll meet someone or whatever. But marriage is such a confine. If you date and it doesn’t work you just leave. If you get married and find out you don’t like each other, you’re kind of stuck aren’t you?”

“Divorce is a bitter word compared to breakup, right?” The thought has crossed Zayn’s mind before, more than once.

Harry snaps his fingers, “Exactly. I don’t want to be stuck for the wrong reasons. To try and make it work just because I’m supposed to.”

Zayn takes another gulp of wine, “What is it you do want, then?”

Harry laughs and it comes out like a bark. “Forever is a long fucking time, you know. Like, right now, maybe I just  I want someone who let’s me keep a toothbrush at their flat.”

Zayn nearly chokes again as he swallows, “Excuse me?”

Harry looks out into the darkness without meeting Zayn’s eyes, a slight smile on his lips. “Someone who doesn’t expect me to be there every night or whatever but has an extra toothbrush and, like, my favorite yogurt in their fridge.”

Zayn pokes because it’s what he does best. “What if there are two extra toothbrushes, one for you on some nights and someone else on the others?”

He feels Harry’s gaze before he meets it, that lingering question there of whether Zayn is prodding or being malicious. “At this age, I think I’d be okay with monogamy. Not matrimony,” he says, laughing, “But I think monogamy is hard to come by sometimes. Or, mutual monogamy.”  The last note of his voice is bitter but like some sort of fresh bruise, Zayn doesn’t poke at the last statement. He knows what Harry means without saying it. 

“Enough about me,” Harry says after a beat passes. “Do tell, why the bitterness about weddings?”

Zayn smirks, “Did the bitterness seep through? I tried to keep it hidden.”

“Only a bit,” Harry says, teasing a little.

“I almost got married.” Zayn says it right out instead of debating it, comfortable with Harry and maybe like he owes him some piece of the truth. “And by almost I mean we were engaged, she had a dress picked out and a Pinterest page and we had some far off date in the future written on our calendars.”

Harry doesn’t seem as shocked as other people Zayn has told in the past, just like he’s listening. “What happened?”

“I called it off,” Zayn says, he smiles then he shakes his head. “I proposed because everyone kept asking when I would and when we would have babies and the whole bit. I thought proposing would stop the questions, put a Band-Aid over the pieces of our relationship we didn’t want anyone else to see.” He shrugs and rubs his hands together, “As you can imagine, it didn’t. Planning the whole thing was torture, we both felt like we were in a death march but neither one of us said anything because going through with the wedding was what everyone expected.”

He studies Harry as he drinks from the bottle, the way his throat works as he swallows. Zayn takes another one of the rolls, tearing off a piece before he continues. “And then I woke up one day and realized I didn’t love her -- Elizabeth, I mean. I proposed because I thought a ring was the next step, meant I was in love. I just started to realize that the ring isn’t where the happiness comes from. Doesn’t mean shit really.”

“So, weddings just cause like PTSD now or what?” Harry grabs for his piece of chicken from earlier, tearing off a bite with his teeth.

Zayn rolls his eyes, “Kind of, in a completely self-absorbed and insensitive way. Just a reminder of what I almost did, you know. I think marriage works for a lot of people,” he shrugs, “I just don’t think it will ever be something that works for me. It’s a bit tainted now.”

“Do you want the toothbrush thing, then?” Harry asks, a playful lilt in his tone.

He rubs at his jaw, considering. “I, like, have this this kitchen shit my mum bought for me -- like a fondue set and a cookbook and I’d like to be able to use it. Like, not eat dinner alone all the time. Sometimes it’s just nice to sit in silence and know you’ve got someone there to share it with.” He feels like he might be able to ramble on for a couple more minutes but he cuts himself off.

Harry nods and it’s quiet between them, both picking at food from the plate between them.

“Sorry to drag us down to like, an emotional abyss,” Zayn teases to try to add some lightness between them.

“Seriously,” Harry says, eyes wide. “Got me over here reconsidering my life and shit.” He sighs rather dramatically and reaches for the bottle of wine, “Best to keep drinking.”

And that’s what they do. They drink through their bottle of wine and eat every last piece of food from the previously heaping plate. They talk about nothing in particular but there’s a sense of openness between them, like sharing their secrets has knocked down any sort of boundaries they might have previously had.

Every once in awhile there will be a burst of sound from the wedding reception but neither one of them is inclined to join in. Zayn thinks he might be able to sit there all night, listening to Harry talk about his uni days and his hay fever and the time he had to hold a bride’s dress while she peed because all of the bridesmaids had food poisoning.

Harry makes Zayn try the cantaloupe and Zayn pretends to be allergic until Harry, rather unceremoniously, shoves it in his mouth and then radiates smugness as soon as Zayn chews it and agrees he likes the sweetness of it.

“I didn’t think I liked it, okay?” Zayn says as Harry calls him a liar and a fraud repeatedly. “Bad childhood experience, I think.”

“Excuses,” Harry laughs but before he can say much more there are hurried footsteps on the gravel path behind them and they both look over their shoulders at the same time.

A woman Zayn doesn’t recognize comes into view, panting and with her light pink dress hiked up by her knees. “The bride!” Her voice is loud as she looks at them with wide eyes, “She’s leaving!”

Zayn blinks and then looks over at Harry who has his lips parted but his eyes shining with mirth before he gasps, “Not the bride!” He throws his arms out to the side, “I haven’t told her the truth!”

“Time is running out and we’re doing a sparkler send off,” the woman says, going so far as to stomp one of her sandaled feet before she turns and runs away from them, the gravel making the same skittering noises as when she’d come down.

Zayn starts laughing as soon as she seems far enough away and he falls backward on the wooden floor in the process. Harry stands suddenly and reaches his hand towards Zayn, “Come along, darling. I have a marriage to ruin.” He’s absolutely ridiculous and Zayn is completely under his spell.

Finishing the last possible sip from the bottle of wine and then grabbing Harry’s camera lest they both forget, Zayn reaches him, clasping his warm hand in his and standing. As they run up the gravel path, laughing like they’re sixteen and not twenty-five, they don’t let go.

Zayn cautiously admits that the sparklers look cool as the wedding guests flutter them around in an archway of people, the bride and groom running down the center of them. Despite not knowing either one of them, Zayn feels a little swell of happiness at the way they smile at each other and kiss as they climb into a waiting car. He doesn’t think it’s too much to be happy for someone else even if it will never be the same happiness he finds. Harry must feel it too because he glances sideways at Zayn and smiles. The night is warm and the wine makes Zayn forget about the fire hazard surrounding them, twirling his own sparkler as Harry takes pictures on his camera.

 ♥

Once the bride and groom are gone the party seems to end rather abruptly, people flocking back towards the golf carts to be taken back to the hotel.

“I guess that’s the end of that, then,” Zayn says as he watches the crowd move swiftly into the darkness, the tent behind them illuminated but nearly empty. His dead sparkler hangs at his side.

“More cake for us,” Harry says, turning and walking away without further warning. Of all things, Zayn had forgotten about the possibility of wedding cake. He follows Harry towards a table full of individually plated pieces of white cake. The frosting is fluffy, Zayn’s favorite, and he thinks he might be able to eat more than one.

“What are you doing?” Zayn can’t help but laugh as Harry starts piling multiple pieces onto a plate as if he’s heard Zayn’s thought, stacking slices precariously on top of each other.

“What?” He licks a bit of frosting off his thumb, “They give you enough for like, a mouse and there’s no one even here. Well, besides my sister.” He nudges his head towards a table in the back where, Zayn has failed to notice, Gemma is sitting with a bottle of wine and a guy, the clipboard nowhere to be seen.

“You know, we missed the part where they smear it all over each other’s faces,” Zayn says, grabbing a small stack of napkins to hopefully accommodate Harry’s ten slices of cake. “Out of everything that happens, I think that’s my favorite part.”

He’s straightening a stray plate of cake from falling off the table so he doesn’t realize Harry’s moving until it’s too late and he feels two fingers dragging along the side of his jaw and then over his gaping mouth. Harry holds up a frosting smeared hand and a shy smile. “Oops?”

Zayn tries to look upset and it doesn’t work. He gets a napkin and wipes along his face, “You’re trouble, Harry Styles.”

“Am not,” Harry is quick to say, taking the napkin from Zayn and wiping the frosting off  for him and then another smudge using his thumb. “There.”  He picks up both plates of cake and asks Zayn to carry his camera.

Zayn loops it over his shoulder as they walk back across the tent and when he sees an unopened bottle of champagne on the bar top, he figures it’s all but calling his name and he grabs that too.

“Where to now?” He asks as they bypass all of the tables, staff in black dress shirts coming in from the edges and starting to clean up.

“Hotel of course,” Harry says over his shoulder. “We just stole champagne and wedding cake and now we gotta go.” He starts walking more quickly and though Zayn knows everything was up for grabs, he moves a little quicker too, trying not to laugh at how absolutely ridiculous they must look. 

The tipsy golf cart ride back to the hotel makes them both laugh a little too hard, Harry yelling every time he's about to lose his small collection of cake.

"I don't even like cake that much," he says once they pass a particularly bumpy patch of gravel, "But now I'm, like, committed to the cause."

"Seriously. You'll be a massive failure if you drop those and we won't be able to be friends." Zayn grips the camera a little tighter -- dropping it isn't comparable to the cake.

"This is the most glamourous robbery I've ever been a part of," Harry says when the hotel finally comes into view, lit up with even more fairy lights and a warm glow from the lobby.

"Our getaway car is a golf cart, Harry. Not exactly the most glamourous."

"Well, shit, sorry I haven't been a part of that many robberies.” He laughs and bites his lip as he looks at Zayn, "Are you some sort of expert or something?"

Zayn's not sure where it comes from but he tilts his head towards Harry and drawls like a cowboy, "Course babe. I steal all the boys’ hearts and ride away on my Harley." He barely manages to get the words out without laughing.

"A real rebel on my hands, eh?" Then the cake slides towards the edge of his plate and he squeals about that instead as he tries to catch it. He manages it and Zayn is weirdly proud of him.

"Oh, look, it's your friend at the front desk," Harry says once they're standing in front of the lobby doors, Holly from the day before stationed behind the desk

Zayn rolls his eyes and holds the door open for Harry.

"Hello," he sings, waving with one of the plates of cake. Zayn lifts his knee to press against Harry's ass to get him to move quicker. "How are you?"

Holly looks at them both and smiles, says she's doing alright. "How was the wedding?"

"Fantastic." Harry laughs when Zayn knees him harder. "We're just going upstairs for cake and champagne if you want to join us." He starts winking with his entire face, his dimples curving in.

Zayn rolls his eyes, "Don't mind him, he's high on the romance of the night and all."

"Just being nice," he says quietly to Zayn, pressing the call button for the lift.

"You nearly propositioned a stranger for a threesome just then."

The lift doors come open and Harry backs in with wide eyes, "I didn't realize."

There's the moment where they just both look at each other again, Zayn incredulous and Harry with his mouth open and then they're both laughing all over again, the lift doors shutting and the woman at the reception desk fading away completely.

♥

Harry finds the key to his room easily this time, though he has to set the plate of cake in Zayn’s arms when he realizes he’s taken on a bit too much at once. The room is much like when Zayn had left it in the morning except the bed is made and the man and jizz scent has died down, replaced by the same smell of Harry’s shampoo and vanilla. As he’s setting the camera down he notices a three-wick candle sitting on the dresser. It seems very Harry to have a candle in a hotel room -- fire hazard and all.

“You brought that?”

Harry is hanging his suit jacket in the closet when he glances at Zayn. “When I say I usually spend these weekend alone, I’m not kidding. Like, I light candles drink a bottle of wine and wank until my eyes cross usually.”

Zayn laughs so hard he snorts, toeing off his shoes in the process. “I won’t lie to you, that could have easily been me.”

“Soul mates.” Harry’s tone is fully sardonic as he tosses his shoes towards the armoire.

Zayn takes off his suit jacket and, in honor of his mum and all three sisters, crosses the room to hang it next to Harry’s so it won’t wrinkle.

“Now that we’re talking about the candle, I have to light it. Murphy’s Law or something.” Harry has a lighter on his nightstand he grabs. It takes him three times to get it to light.

“Pretty sure that’s not Murphy’s Law.” Zayn laughs as he watches him struggle but refuses to offer assistance. “I thought you were a teacher?”

“Get in.” Harry pumps his fist once all three wicks are lit. “Zayn, if the six year olds of England start learning Murphy’s Law, I promise I’ll read up on it.”

“Ah, Teacher of The Year you are. I forgot.” Zayn takes his wallet and phone and sets them on the dresser, far enough from the candle to not tempt fate. “Where are you in London, anyway?”

“Hackney area, kind of south east of. You?”

“North side of Hackney, yeah. By that farmer’s market that comes in the summer.” Zayn figured Harry was close considering they got on the same train but he didn’t realize he was a only a few metro stops away. Not that it would mean anything ever. It was just -- It was good to know is what he settled on to get his mind to shut up.

“I love that one.” Harry says, “They’ve got excellent fruit round June.”

Zayn turns on the lamps in the room to give himself something to do while Harry turns on the television. Pretty Woman was the first thing on, just starting by the looks of it.

They both watch it quietly for a moment, “I don’t like this movie for the record,” Harry says without looking away from the screen.

“Me neither.” Zayn has vivid flashbacks of watching it with Doniya while their parents were at work, having no idea what was going on until he got older.

He doesn’t believe Harry and then Harry really blows his cover when he speaks at the same time as Richard Gere on screen, “What’s your name?”

He laughs as he turns towards Zayn and then he gasps when Zayn talks over Julia Roberts, “What do you want it to be?”

Harry points at Zayn, all accusatory-like, “You’re a liar.”

“As if you aren’t,” Zayn counters before sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m pretty sure I was promised champagne and cake, by the way.”

“As if you aren’t,” Harry mimics in a scarily spot on impression of Zayn’s voice. He mutes the television and grabs the champagne from the dresser, heading for the door to the balcony.

“Where are you going?”

“You think I’m opening champagne in a hotel room with a lit candle?” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, opening the door. “As if.”

“I see that teacher card is coming out again,” Zayn calls over his shoulder before letting himself fall back on the bed. “I’m staying right here if you don’t mind.” Harry doesn’t respond but that doesn’t make Zayn move.

There’s the sound of a cork popping and then a surprised yell before Harry comes in and clears his throat. Zayn sits partway up on his forearms to look at Harry, “Did you just squeal?”

“There was, like, a bird,” he says, pursing his lips and shrugging his shoulders. He might be the worst liar Zayn’s ever met.

“Right, of course.”

“Here, take this, I dumped it on myself.”

Zayn takes the bottle but doesn’t bother trying not to laugh especially at the dark stain on the front of Harry’s pants.

The champagne fizzes in Zayn’s mouth when he takes a sip and then down his throat in the pleasant way the expensive stuff tends to do. It’s made better because they didn’t pay for it and because he gets to stare at Harry as he stands in only his boxers searching for another pair of pants. The night before, he didn’t have the chance to admire Harry as much, quick and sloppy as they were. Now he can see the slight muscle in his legs and dark ink across his ankles as he shifts around, and then the darker ink on the front of his leg.

He pulls on a pair of dark grey sweats and turns to Zayn as he takes off his black shirt, unbuttoning from the bottom to the top. “Is it good?” He smirks like he knows Zayn has been looking. Caught, it takes Zayn a moment to remember he’s holding the champagne.

“Very, uh, fizzy.” He’s an idiot.

“Nice.” Harry takes the bottle and tips it against his lips before handing it back to Zayn. He slides his shirt off his arms and smacks his lips together, “I can feel it bubble in my stomach.”

“Hence the bubbly part, I think.” Zayn takes another pull and then decides to be classier-- a hotel version of classy, to be fair. He grabs two paper cups from a stack on the nightstand and fills both, making sure the bottle is set down securely before sliding back on the bed, resting against the headboard.

Harry crawls from the bottom of the bed, a sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head and the plate of cake in his hands. “We didn’t get forks,” he says, settling cross legged in the center of the bed and sighing.

“No, I did.” Zayn twists around and looks on the bed before seeing them across the room and near the candle. “Over there." 

Harry follows his eye line to the forks and shakes his head, pushing the hood away from his face. “Nope. I refuse to get up ever again.” He pinches a piece of cake between his fingers and takes a bite,  licking the frosting from his thumb.

“Fine by me.” Zayn hands him a paper cup of champagne with a smile. “Low budget celebration over here.”

Harry pushes one of the plates of cake closer to Zayn’s leg, “Do you want to hear my wedding cake theory?”

Mouth full of cake, Zayn nods, makes as much of an agreeing sound as possible.

“My theory has been proven true, I might add.” He smiles when Zayn rolls his eyes, “It’s that the quality of a marriage depends on the wedding cake. Dry cake, dry marriage, crumbly cake,” he flicks his hands around, “Crumbling marriage. Sweet cake, sweet marriage. Etcetera.”

“And this has been proven you say?” Zayn takes a swipe of frosting and licks it off his finger.

“Repeatedly. Like, I go to too many weddings for my own good so I eat a lot of wedding cake and each time one of the marriages go wrong, I can usually remember if something was weird about with the cake.”

“So, not necessarily proven by science but just situational." 

“I mean, if you want to be terribly technical about it.” Harry rolls his eyes and tugs at the ends of his hair.

“What’s your verdict on this one, then?” Zayn refills his cup and then Harry’s when he reaches over with his own half-empty cup.

“Glad you asked,” Harry says, smiling. “It’s weird because the frosting is light and sweet but the cake is almost too dense and heavy. I would have wanted the whole thing to be airy or rich, you know?" 

Zayn takes a chunk of the cake without the frosting and chew thoughtfully, “Yeah, I guess it is more fudgy brownie consistency than cakey.”

Harry bites his lip like Zayn’s reading him some sort of poetry. “Exactly! I don’t know what that means, though.”

“Not that I’m a cake connoisseur by any means. It’s kind of decadent with the cake and fluffy with the frosting, yeah?” Zayn takes another lick of frosting, “I’ll say, excellent sex life and a lot of banter.”

Harry smirks, “I thought you were supposed to be cynical.”

“Only when it comes to me and my own life,” Zayn says, making the moment heavier than he intended. Harry studies him, eyebrows pulling together like he wants to say something. Zayn clears his throat, “What do you think? Best guess on what the cake means.”

“Inconsistent,” Harry says, lips pursed. “They’ll both want different things even if they think they’re on the same page.”

Zayn tilts his head, “And I’m the cynical one?” He drinks more of the champagne and sets his paper cup down. “You think they’ll make it, then?”

Harry messes with the sleeve of his jumper, pulls it down on his hand a bit. “I don’t think I’m the right person to ask.” He smiles when he meets Zayn’s eyes.

“God,” Zayn flops back on the bed, sideways so he can still see Harry. “No one should invite us to weddings.”

“Weren’t exactly invited to this one were we?” Harry raises his eyebrows as Zayn agrees, tilting his head back to finish his champagne and then crawling to set his cup next to Zayn’s on the nightstand. When he sits back down, he’s much closer to Zayn -- so close Zayn can smell the fabric softener in his sweats.

“That’s true.” Zayn swallows and rolls onto his side, playing with the edge of the cake plate for something to do with his hands.

“I’m,” Zayn starts as Harry says, “Hey,” both of them laughing.

“You go,” Zayn says, smoothing crumbs off the duvet.

“I was just going to say you’ve made this weekend much more,” he bites his lip, “Fun and exciting than I expected it would be.”

Zayn nods, cheeks going pink because this talking stuff is not usually his forte. “I was going to say the same. Basically, yeah.” He realizes he’s absently drawing a line over the outside hem of Harry’s pants but he doesn’t stop.

“So,” Harry says softly, watching Zayn’s finger. “We’ve ended this night the same as last night, eating food in my bed.”

Zayn looks up at Harry, drags his finger slower. “It’s our thing,” he says. The understanding that it’s only a thing that belongs to them now, in the span of this weekend and then will cease to exist -- well, he ignores that part.

It’s become a habit over the last few years for him -- to ignore anything that feels like it might hurt him somewhere down the road, to push it away. Protecting himself by collecting all of those feelings and ideas that comes in waves and flashes in the pit of his stomach and never letting them get air.

He doesn’t like to think about, acknowledge what it is he’s so scared of. Falling for someone, letting someone in again -- the raw sting of giving away your heart and having it handed back with dirt in the crevasses and tears along the walls. Being the one who is responsible for handing back someone’s heart that way.

The blood racing through his veins now, the way his stomach swoops when imagines Harry’s lips on his -- he indulges for a moment. He let’s the thoughts of his early train fade to the back of his mind, focuses on the moment in front of him, knowing already it won't last.

Harry sat by Zayn first the night before, grabbed him and didn’t let go all weekend, let him belong instead of floating but this time Zayn wants to be first. He waits to Harry to look up at him, away from where his finger is tracing, and meet Zayn’s eyes.

When he does, there’s the ghost of a smile on his lips and a question in his eyes about where the night is going. Zayn sits up and doesn’t give Harry a chance to flit away, his hands sliding against the sides of his neck before he kisses him, catches him by surprise if the gasp against his mouth is anything to go by. Surprise turns to want as Zayn is met by warm breath and softer lips, falling forward as Harry lays back, catching his full body weight against Harry’s front, and swallowing that punch of breath as well.

Zayn traces Harry’s jaw with his thumbs as they kiss but tilts his head when Harry’s lips move to his jaw and down his neck, hands roaming up and down his back. Pushing himself up on his knees to straddle him, Zayn unbuttons his own shirt so it hangs open, presses his fingers under Harry’s jumper so Harry can tug it over his head. Zayn lets his fingers explore, the smooth curves of Harry’s hips and inked stomach, he presses his lips in the middle of the moth there -- absolutely ridiculous -- and then traces a path up Harry’s chest, smiling against his skin at the whine he gets in return.

Harry presses Zayn’s shirt the rest of the way off, his hands against Zayn’s bare skin enough to raise goosebumps. He presses his fingertips just under the waistband of Zayn’s trousers as their lips find each other again, rutting and gasping in turns. Heat lingers between them, between the layers of their clothes, as they touch and tease, never enough and never too far.

“Zayn.” Harry’s voice is broken as his back curves off the bed. “Please?”

“What?” Zayn slides his hands down the sides of Harry’s sweats, resting against the edge of his boxers. “You gotta tell me, babe.”

Harry’s hands press against Zayn’s arse, drag his hips down against his own leaving no question. “Fuck me, Zayn.” This time the torn apart whine comes from Zayn’s lips. “Please?”

Zayn lifts his head from Harry’s neck, has to catch his breath and focus on his face. It’s a worthwhile look, Harry’s hair a mess, face mottled in red and lips bitten pink. “Aren’t you the picture of polite?” He smirks and bites Harry’s bottom lip, adds to the dark pink there. “You sure you want it, Harry?” His hand drags down between them, presses against Harry through his sweats. He’s half hard already and presses against Zayn’s hand with another breathless sound before Zayn pulls his hand away.

“Yes,” Harry’s hips press up again, seeking the pressure again. “Right now, Zayn. Please. Thank you in advance.”

Zayn laughs with his head thrown back, pushes Harry’s damp hair from his face and smiles down at him. “Don’t go thanking me yet.”

Harry bites his wrist, gentle but there are still imprints of white where he’s pressed the blood away from the surface of Zayn’s skin. “With a face like that, it’s just an honor to be in your presence, really.”

Zayn pinches his nipple for that, eyes going dark when Harry groans instead of retaliating.

“Hold that thought,” Harry says getting off the bed and running to his suitcase. He throws his clothes out of the suitcase in a hurry and Zayn can’t help but laugh, standing to take off his own pants and then his socks, leaving his clothes in a pile next to the bed. “Ah ha!” Harry holds up a small blue tube and two gold packets with a grin before stepping on the hem of his pants and shaking his hips to pull them off as he walks across the room without using his hands once.

“What the fuck was that?” Zayn gapes as Harry crawls back on the bed in his boxers.

“Party trick,” Harry laughs, laying back and spreading his legs, making room for Zayn to crawl between.

“Aren’t you a prize?” He doesn’t give Harry a chance to respond, kissing down the center of his stomach and across his hips, fingers tucking into the waistband of his briefs to pull them down partly.

He drags his tongue lower, over the edge of his boxers and then lower through the heated fabric, smirking at the way Harry can’t keep still, hips hitching and fingers dragging in Zayn’s hair and then on his face, tracing his cheekbone. He tugs the boxers off fully after a moment more, letting Harry kick them off just so he can look at him, creamy white skin interrupted by dark ink, cock hard and pink, a vein running underneath. Objectively, one of the prettiest dicks Zayn’s seen, enough to make his stomach go warm.

He takes him in his mouth and presses Harry’s hips down, tastes him and swallows around him, traces the vein with his tongue and around the base. Not enough pressure for Harry, not with the way he grips the duvet under him -- responsive and gorgeous if Zayn is putting words to it.

“Come on, Zayn, please.” Harry kicks one leg out when Zayn flips the cap on the lube, almost a Pavlovian response.

“So sweet, Harry.” Zayn kisses the top of his thigh and nudges his legs further apart, falling flat on his stomach in the space left between. “So polite,” he teases, bites on the soft inside of Harry’s thigh, does it again just to hear him gasp.

“It’s not going to be so sweet if you don’t hop to it --” His voice cuts off when Zayn circles his rim with his finger before pressing one finger inside, mouth circling the head of his cock.

He works up to two and then three fingers, Harry begging with sweet pleases and threats of wanking himself off if Zayn doesn’t move any faster, both of them covered in a sheen of sweat by the time Harry is working himself down on Zayn’s fingers, gasping when his fingers curl against the warmth inside. Zayn wipes his hand on the duvet and slips off his boxers as Harry sits up with the condom packet in his fingers, tearing it open. He pumps his hand along Zayn, biting the side of his hip before he rolls the condom on and laying back, tugging Zayn down against him again.

Zayn kisses Harry when he presses in, careful and slow at Harry’s pace, letting him adjust and push further, panting against Zayn’s lips. They fight to find a rhythm, Harry’s fingers digging into Zayn’s biceps, Zayn’s face tucked next to Harry’s, breathing against his neck -- when they finally do, it turns electric. Each time Zayn moves his hips there is a zip of heat in his gut, muscles straining and aching as he presses his lips to Harry’s sweaty forehead, mumbles when Harry’s hips match his thrusts.

Zayn has to pause when he loses his breath, rests his hands on Harry’s waist just to watch him. Harry has grabbed onto the headboard behind his head, arms flexing to pull himself as he swivels his hips to grind down on Zayn and then up again. The lithe muscles in his stomach flex and his neck tightens, the most mesmerizing sight Zayn’s seen in a long time is the way Harry fucks himself on Zayn’s cock. The headboard slams with each twist and Zayn has to pinch his own thigh to keep from coming as Harry groans with his eyes fluttering. He finds it hard to believe that this Harry is the same one with floral trousers and a purple suit and the twist of him happening to be capable of both is a lot to handle.

“You sure aren’t making us any friends,” Zayn comments after a particularly loud crunch of the headboard against the wall. He runs his fingers across Harry’s hips from the edges of one fern to another. He should have known Harry would be like this when he saw such ornamental ink pointing at his dick.

Harry slows his hips and looks at Zayn, “You want friends or you want to fuck?”

Zayn falls against him laughing, pressing his hips harder to make Harry bite his lip, the sarcasm slipping from his face. He kisses his jaw and up to his lips before he answers.

“Trust me, love, I want to fuck.” He slides down the bed and takes Harry with him, his grasp slipping from the headboard. Zayn smiles and reaches for his wrists, holding them over his head with one hand, his other hand resting on Harry’s hip. He’s not tall enough to encompass Harry, he knows Harry could break out of his grip in a heartbeat but Harry doesn’t even try.

He presses his hips forward before dragging them slowly back, and slamming forward again. “Yeah?”

Whatever Harry wants to say doesn’t come, his mouth dropping open and his head pressing against the sheets, fingernails digging into where Zayn’s hand holds him back. Heat gathers in Zayn’s stomach in waves, his toes curling under as he presses his weight into his hands, chasing his own release with each drive of his hips. Harry looks even more out of his mind, jaw dropped open and hips working on their own, his stomach clenching over and over.

“Pull my,” he rasps, barely, before taking a shaky inhale, “Pull my hair.”

“What?” Even as Zayn says it, he cradles the back of Harry’s head, strands damp near his neck and curls his fingers, tugging his hair. The groan it gets from Harry is a sweet sound, cut off when he starts coming, clenching around Zayn in a white hot grip that makes color dance behind his eyes. Zayn bites his lip and tries to pull Harry through it, releasing his hair in favor of pulling him off, smooth with a slight grip until there’s nothing left just splatters against his skin, that stupid moth.

Harry seems to be lazy post orgasm as he drags his hand through the mess on his stomach and looking up at Zayn, blinking slowly, “You can come on me.”

Zayn pulls from Harry’s body as gentle as possible given the pending explosion of his nerve endings, slipping off the condom to get a hand on himself, tugging with renewed fervor. He feels it start to coil, the unending heat, and he catches himself on one palm next to Harry’s ribs, making cut off sounds to the rhythm of his hand clicking with lube and come over his dick. Harry tugs his face down to kiss him, biting his lip and sending him over the edge, wave after wave of lights behind his eyes and fizz in his veins, stealing his breath and spasming each muscle, adding to the monotone canvas across Harry’s stomach.

He shouldn’t collapse on top of Harry given the mess between them but Zayn’s not sure he could help himself if he tried, flattening his body with his face pressed to Harry’s sweaty neck to catch his breath. He can feel the way Harry’s chest balloons underneath him, ribs expanding.

“Fuck me,” Harry says after a moment, his voice slightly raspy. 

“Again?” Zayn doesn’t lift his head, just says it into the soft skin below Harry’s ear.

Harry laughs and wiggles, says Zayn’s breath tickles. Along with the wiggling comes the distinct sensation of smearing and Zayn crawls off of Harry to get a cloth from the bathroom even though his legs feel like the muscles and bones have been removed. He douses one rag in warm water and cleans himself off, pausing when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His hair is a complete mess and his chest is dotted with pink and reds, face flushed but he looks happy. Finds it funny that he looks at himself all the time but can’t quite remember when he last saw this version of him looking back in the reflection.

Back in the room, another rag in hand, Zayn finds Harry starfished on the bed, half hard and skin still pink, the room phone from the nightstand pressed to his ear. Zayn’s tempted to grab the camera from the dresser to capture the moment. “That’s all, thank you.” Harry grins as he hangs up the phone rolling onto his side.

“Who was that?”

Zayn tosses him the rag and grabs his boxers from the floor, pulls them on.

“Room service,” Harry says, wiping along his stomach. “I think we need some nachos now.” He smiles and drops the rag on the ground, patting the bed next to him like an invitation.  Before Zayn can make any moves he lifts his hand again and groans as it is now covered in cake, cake that has been smeared down into the duvet on closer inspection. “I need to call them back, don’t I?”

“Yeah, probably.” Harry reaches for the phone with his clean hand and Zayn backs away towards the bathroom, ‘“And in the meantime, I’ll get you a bigger towel.”

A new duvet and a plate of nachos arrives nearly twenty minutes later announced by a couple of knocks on the door. Zayn pulls on a pair of Harry’s sweats to get the door but it’s too late as Harry, who has taken to wearing a terrible pair of hotel slippers, answers the door in his boxers.

“We had a bit of an accident,” Harry says as he takes the plate of chips and then the new duvet under his arm. Zayn sees it’s just past two on the digital clock next to the bed and he’s not sure the hotel attendant is that interested in Harry’s story. “See, like, we were at a wedding and there was cake, which we brought here, of course...”

Zayn rolls his eyes and comes to the door to get the nachos at least, now that they’re in the room it smells kind of heavenly. What he finds is a guy in a red polo shirt, gaping at Harry’s body and definitely not looking at his face. Zayn feels weirdly protective and a little jealous as he takes the plate from Harry and stares back at the guy.

He must finally notice Zayn standing just by Harry’s shoulder and he jumps a bit, clearing his throat and taking a step back, “Uh great. Well, have a good night, then." 

“Thanks again,” Harry says, letting the door slip from his grip and shut with an echoing thwack. “That was weird. He like, wouldn’t make eye contact with me.”

Zayn shrugs with a chip bit between his teeth, “Don’t know, babe.” His eyes scan Harry on instinct, his tan legs and stupid slippers, too small pants and random ink. He pauses over Harry’s stomach where there’s a dried white smear arching along his ribs. He points and starts laughing, trying to get his mouth to work. “You missed a spot.” He laughs harder when Harry looks down and then back up, eyes wide and pointing right back at Zayn. As if that changes anything.

“You heard me tell him about the cake though, I’m sure that’s what he thought this was.” He motions at his chest frantically.

Zayn’s laughing so hard he has to set the plate of nachos down as not to spill them,  “No chance in hell of that.”

Harry pouts at his stomach, and then glares at Zayn, “It might not even be mine. It could easily be yours!”

He can’t help it as he starts to laugh again, coming up close to Harry and kissing his lips once and then twice. “Afraid that doesn’t make any difference, darling.”

There’s some infomercial on television by the time the plate of cheesy nachos is gone and the bed has been remade. Neither one of them is inclined to get up to find the remote control, just another thing left behind in the wedding cake, champagne and sex escapade.

Harry traces over Zayn’s palm as they lay on their sides facing each other, Harry’s ankle slotted between Zayn’s. If Zayn had any self preservation about him, he wouldn’t lay and talk with Harry as two turns into three and then four, talking about where they grew up and the things they’ve always wanted to do but haven’t done yet, their families and what it’s like to have older sisters. It’s pointless and silly but Zayn knows it’s not going to bode well in a few hours when he walks away and pretends like none of this ever happened at all.

“I forget, sometimes, what it’s like to have fun. Like, adult fun,” Harry says when the infomercial for a can opener switches to an advertisement for a classic rock compilation of Greatest Hits. “That sounds a bit ridiculous because I’m twenty-five, yeah? But I’m with my kids all day and then I go shopping and catch up on my shows, do my marking, go to bed.”

“I get it.” Zayn rubs his eye and adjusts the pillow under his head. “I feel like I’m more focused on my art than anything else and a night in doesn’t sound like the worst thing anymore.” He doesn’t say it’s hard to remember the Zayn he was at university who always made his hair perfect, who used to woo girls regularly, decided being engaged and spending the rest of his life with someone was a decision he could rightfully make at twenty-one.

“We spend our whole lives figuring out who we are and then it’s like you get it for one moment when your graduating school, or at least you think you know, and then you’re twenty-five and somehow starting all over again.” Harry sighs and purses his lips, “Just, this whole weekend has felt like the kind of fun I used to have and I’ve just missed it, I guess.”

“It has been,” Zayn says, smiling even as the tiredness catches up to him. “A lot of fun, really.” He wants to tell Harry it was more than sex and getting off that was fun, more than being drunk or stumbling around. It was conversation that mattered and opening up, learning about someone and letting it happen -- it was too much to put in words. And then it hits him, why bother even explaining when it won’t matter at all in a few hours.

They climb out of bed a moment later to brush their teeth, Zayn quickly becoming a finger-brush expert. Harry washes his face and moisturizes while Zayn splashes water on his face and rubs it dry. His skin smells sweet when he’s done and Zayn vaguely promises himself to take up a moisturizing routine when he gets home. This time Zayn doesn’t debate going back to his own room, sliding beneath the covers of Harry’s bed. Harry turns out the lights before he climbs in, scooting closer to Zayn until he’s practically in his space.

Harry giggles in the darkness and Zayn rolls his eyes, “What?”

“It smells very minty here,” he says, lit up slightly by the dawn breaking outside. “Very fresh.”

“You’re a loser.” Zayn laughs, reaching out to push his hand back through Harry’s hair to soften the blow.

Harry catches his wrist and kisses his palm, so soft it’s almost a whisper. Zayn repays him by scooting close enough to lock their legs again, kiss his lips gently. Harry doesn’t pull away as he traces Zayn’s lips with his tongue. It’s making out without heat, without intention and Zayn’s not sure who he last he did something like this. Regardless, he pulls himself closer to Harry, draws his thumb over his hip as they kiss, able to feel his warmth all the way to his toes.

♥

For the second morning in a row, Zayn wakes up first and with only minutes before his alarm goes off by the looks of the digital clock on the nightstand. He’d set an alarm when Harry fell asleep, belatedly realizing he couldn’t actually put real life on hold and his train would leave with or without him.

Now, Harry is snuggled in close to him, his head resting on Zayn’s chest -- a far cry from the morning before when they woke up with their heads at opposite ends. He let’s himself run his fingers through Harry’s hair, lingering in a knotted curl on accident. Harry’s skin is warm pressed against his and the weight feels reassuring and not quite trapped the way Zayn has felt before. He let’s his mind wander towards the idea that a morning like this could be his, if not with Harry with someone else. He tries not to pause too long over the insistent part of his mind that says it should be Harry.

It’s not his to have, it’s not his to want.

He’s said he doesn’t want forever or another ring or to have someone in his bed every night and every morning. A two night stand doesn’t stand to change his mind but Harry’s nose scrunching in his sleep and his eyelashes fluttering -- he let’s himself have the thought that maybe he could have it. Try it again.

Instead, marimba shatters the sleepy silence and Harry dives under the duvet, the sudden missing weight somehow heavier than when he was there. It makes Zayn chuckle, the quickness with which Harry disappears and whining sound he makes as he does it -- reminds him of a cat getting startled, running and hiding.

“S’my alarm, babe,” he says reaching for his phone on the side table, stretching a whole three hours of sleep from his bones.

“Fuckin’ hate marimba.” Harry’s voice is muffled by the cocoon of the duvet over his head.

Considering the alarm means Zayn has to pull himself from the warm bed -- he’s not too fond of the sound either. He manages to make his way to the shower despite the way Harry curls into the duvet and makes it look twice as appealing as it had before.

With a towel low on his waist, Zayn remembers he still has to get all of his stuff from downstairs before he can check out which makes him move a little quicker, rushing out of the en suite and into the room.

Harry is sat up in bed with a tray in front of him, a full breakfast spread laid out complete with glasses of orange juice and sliced fruit. His hair is in a sloppy bun and he hasn’t bothered to pull on much more than his boxers from the night before.

“I swear I left you ten minutes ago and you were still asleep.” Zayn shuffles around the used duvet from the night before to find his pants. “Didn’t realize you could order breakfast this early or they could make it that fast.” He drops the towel to put on his boxers, trying not to think about how they’re from yesterday, reminds himself he’ll be downstairs in five minutes to put on a clean pair.

Harry watches him unabashedly, chewing on a piece of toast as he stares. “I ordered last night,” he says while Zayn is putting on his pants, “When I asked for the new duvet.”

“And you wanted it delivered at eight in the morning?” Zayn has his shirt pulled over his shoulders but he sits on the edge of the bed by Harry’s legs and helps himself to a strawberry from the fruit plate. “Early train?”

“At nine thirty,” Harry says, chasing a bit of egg with his toast. “Bus though, not train.”

“Really?” Zayn tries not to let his voice betray him, the part of him that had hoped they’d be on the same train again on the way home, a hollow excuse to drag things out just a little while longer.

“Yeah, train was sold out. Not sure where the bus station is, though.” He pouts his lips in though.

“Mine’s at nine,” Zayn says like it’s a competition. “

“You should eat then.” Harry gestures around at the food, “I ordered enough so you could.” It’s nice is the thing, Zayn just can’t focus because Harry’s also got crumbs on his lips and a mouth the color of strawberries. He finds it hard to look away.

“I should,” Zayn says, buttoning his shirt he spares a glance at the clock on the night stand. “But I don’t have time. I need to go downstairs to the room I never even slept in, mind you,” Harry grins, a bit smug at that, “To get the rest of my stuff, check out and get a cab still.”

“Busy guy.” Harry smiles with red teeth as Zayn takes another strawberry from his tray.

“What about you? Just going to stay here for a bit?”

Harry shrugs, “Gotta eat my breakfast, don’t I?”

“Of course.” Zayn sits on the ground to put his shoes on, sans socks, before shoving his phone and wallet back in his pockets. Harry is quiet on the bed and Zayn feels a little unsure of what to do next. He knows he’s supposed to walk out and never look back -- it’s the unspoken agreement of a night like last night but with the day leading up to it, it’s hard for him to tear it off like a band-aid and not poke at it a bit. 

“Here.” Harry holds up his hand, a wadded up napkin sitting there.

Zayn’s too curious not to come closer. “What’s this?”

“Brekkie to go,” he says, licking his lip. The napkin isn’t just wadded but a makeshift plate where Harry’s organized toast with jam and some fruit. There’s no technical protein so Zayn’s mum would say it doesn’t count as a breakfast at all but Zayn’s a bit too focused on the weird spasm feeling he gets somewhere near his heart.

“Thank you.” Zayn smiles as he let’s Harry place the napkin in his palm, “That’s, uh, that’s really sweet.”

Harry tilts his head just slightly and bites his lip, asking a question or saying something Zayn can’t quite comprehend. So he does the one thing he can think of, the only thing he wants to do, really, and he kisses him. He kisses him good and hard, one hand on the back of his neck so he can’t pull away, putting all of the feelings he can’t articulate right there against his tongue. And it tastes like goodbye, as much as Zayn has felt in a long time. It’s strawberries, orange juice and goodbye.

He steps back when he’s satisfied, keeps his eyes on Harry’s berry lips before he’s brave enough to meet his eyes.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers and Zayn laughs taking another step back. Harry shakes his head as if to clear it, “I mean, for everything. These past two days have been, like, unforgettable.” When he smiles it’s small, just the corners of his mouth. “So, thank you.”

Zayn laughs, “You’re welcome. I think.” It doesn’t feel cheap but it feels uneven. Like maybe they should have had more time -- but maybe what they did have was enough. “Me too, by the way.” He shuffles on his feet for a moment, rocking back and forth. “I should probably go now.”

Harry nods, watching him. Zayn turns towards the door, convinces himself to put one foot in front of the other because he actually has a train to catch and refusing to leave Harry’s room will get him absolutely nowhere.  

“Have a safe trip,” Harry calls.

Zayn turns on his heel, “You too, Harry.”

He picks up his suit jacket, careful not to wrinkle it as he folds it over his arm. With one hand on the door, he thinks if Harry asks him to stay, he might. If he asks for his phone number, he would give it -- maybe put it in his phone with an emoji next to it. Nothing big or annoying like the red heart Waliyha uses for each and every one of her boyfriends but maybe the surprised face. The one that’s like, hey, I didn’t expect this but, fuck, I’m glad I found you. 

Instead, there’s silence. Zayn kind of hates that he was wanting something else. He gets the door open and one foot into the hallway, heart sinking slowly. 

“Zayn?”

He turns so fast his back hits the wall but he barely notices, breakfast napkin clutched in his hand.

Harry looks amused, with a bit of egg on his fork and his eyebrows lifted. “Just, um, just tell Doniya goodbye for me too, okay?”

Zayn nods, “I will. Same to Gemma, from me.” He almost says it then. Almost bites the bullet with two teeth and asks if they can see each other again, tells Harry he feels like he could break a lot of his rules for him -- but before he can, the silence is crackled again with a familiar sound.

“My alarm,” Harry says, putting his fork down and glancing around the bed, marimba echoing dully.

Zayn leaves it at that because it kinds of feels right, feels right as Harry pats around his bed for his phone. As he walks down the hall and waits for the elevator, he’s not sure it’s right at all.

♥

Downstairs, Zayn rushes to get the rest of his things together though his room has remained largely untouched except for when he got ready for the wedding. Between bites of Harry’s makeshift breakfast, he changes into a clean pair of faded jeans and a black jumper before shoving his dirty clothes in his bag and barely fitting his gift bag of wine from when he checked in before zipping it all up.

He texts Doniya on his way down to the front desk, knowing an early train is probably nowhere on her agenda. She responds with a series of sleeping emojis while he’s checking out and, yeah, that’s about right. In a case of perfect timing, there’s already a cab out front and he throws his stuff in immediately, still careful with his suit though he can’t be sure why.

As the cab goes down the gravel path, Zayn leans his head back on the headrest and closes his eyes, let’s the dull sound from the radio wash over him. It’s a closed case, a wedding obligation in the books and one impending train ride to London, back to his flat. He blames the flipping sensation in his stomach on a hangover he doesn’t even have.

His mind drifts to Harry without his permission, wanders towards the way he looked the night before in the gazebo, listening to Zayn without trying to change his mind. He full well knows his cynicism chases people away but Harry wasn’t scared, if anything he was one of the first people to actually understand Zayn because he felt the same. A particularly rough patch of road jolts Zayn to sit back up, eyes opening again as he grabs for the hand rail against the window before his head slams against the window.

Away from the hotel and with the final note of leaving hanging in the air, Zayn wishes he’d had the balls to just ask for Harry’s number. In the moment it seemed like too much but at the chance of never seeing Harry Styles again, it seems worse to have left without one strand of connection. The cab turns out onto the main road, a smoother ride now and Zayn closes his eyes, berates the part of himself that has to be so stubborn all the time. To be fair, it’s not like Harry had asked for his number either. Maybe that’s worse than anything else, to feel something too much over a fleeting weekend, to realize he’s the only one who felt it.

Right as he actually starts to nod off, the driver pulls into the passenger drop off lane at the station amidst a herd of other cabs and cars. Zayn only knows by the way the driver clears his throats and clicks the locks on the door two times to release them.

Zayn pats his pockets feeling for his wallet but comes up short when he checks for his phone. He unzips his bag and shuffles a few things around, dully noting he always puts his phone in his pockets and not in his bag. It’s a cherry on the morning, really.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, zipping his bag up. “I think I left my phone at the hotel.”

The driver meets his eyes in the rear view mirror. “So you’re saying you need to go back?”

Zayn bites his tongue, “That would be good, yeah.” The drivers sighs a bit melodramatically as he pulls back into traffic and Zayn leans back in his seat. “Look, I’m not that happy about it either, mate.”

“At least I’m getting paid,” the driver says with a smirk over his shoulder. Zayn doesn’t respond, somehow seeming to have won the lottery on cab drivers for the morning. He watches the dashboard clock as it climbs higher, does enough mental math to know he’s going to be running for the train either way he cuts it.

“If you wait right here, I’ll just be a moment,” Zayn says when the cab driver slows in front of the hotel. He gets a grunt in response and holds that as trust enough that the guy won’t drive away with Zayn’s bag or suit while he runs inside.

The woman at the front desk isn’t Holly but she smiles as he runs across the marble floor, holding up his phone between two perfectly painted pink nails. “Figured you’d be back,” she says handing it to him.

He takes it from her and wiggles it around bit, “Cheers.” He turns on his heel to leave only making it halfway to the door before a pull in gut makes him turns around -- he has to ask. “Has, uh, Harry Styles checked out yet? Do you know?”

“I can check,” she says, her nails already clicking on the keyboard. He swallows and waits, hands shoved in his jean pockets. “He left about fifteen minutes ago.”

He looks up and she’s smiling pleasantly, hands poised over the keyboard like she’s waiting for him to ask the status of someone else. And no, it’s just Harry for him.

“Okay, thanks.” He turns halfway back to the door before he stops, “Did he leave, like a phone number or a note or anything?” He tries to avoid slapping himself in the face as he says it, but it’s the kind of thing he’s seen in movies, probably making it the last thing Harry would ever do.  

She looks at him skeptically, the pleasant smile more of a lip curl. “Uh, no.”

“Right, okay.” He nods again, “Thanks for the phone and I’ll be going, then.”

Her smile is back as she watches him leave, Zayn tries not to let his shoulders slump.

After he left Elizabeth, he was a wreck. He swore his heart had turned black and now shriveled up at the mere thought of falling for someone again. He’s lived by the motto that nothing lasts forever, that, really,  all good things only last a weekend.

But Harry.

 _Harry_ makes him want to do things like cook dinner for him and go teach art to the kids in his class. Harry, for the briefest moment, made him remember that even if things don’t last forever they can be more than just for a weekend. That being with someone doesn’t have to mean a promised ring in the end.

Before it all fell apart with Elizabeth, in the days not drenched with the hazy film of a bad memory, Zayn remembers the innocent beginnings of dating and getting closer. He just wishes, even now, they had let it be before they tried to label it and seal it up tight with rings and a church. Harry, the way Zayn has felt all weekend with him -- it reminds him of that beginning feeling of possibility, something he hasn’t tried to chase in a long time; hasn’t wanted to. 

It feels like another ending, this time for real, when he slides in the back seat of the waiting cab, pulls the door shut tight. Only, this time he asks the cab driver to take him to the nearest bus station instead of the train station and he’s not sure what is controlling his brain to mouth function anymore, has a shivering sensation it might be his heart.

“Really?” The driver looks at him, full on.

If this were a movie, he would have already been speeding down the road, somehow predestined to know what Zayn was wanting. Instead, his cheeks turn pink as he has to say, “Yes, really.”

The driver rolls his eyes as he turns back around, clearly thinks Zayn is the biggest loser to have ever gotten in the back seat of his car. Zayn settles into his seat and bites the inside of his lip -- there’s a chance he just might be.

 ♥

The bus station is the opposite way of the train station but they make it there in just the same amount of time. Zayn’s already settled on the fact he’s missing his train, thinks he may settle for a late afternoon bus ride if he can manage a ticket since the train will only run to London again tonight. The things he’s doing to chase a phone number -- he can hardly believe himself.

“Do you want me to wait?” The cab driver is sarcastic and a little biting as Zayn gets out of the car.

“Not this time, mate.” Zayn passes a wad of money between the seats, sure he’s tipped a bit too much, considering.

The buses are aligned along an inner roadway, their destinations displayed on a screen in the window. Bag over his shoulder and suit clutched in his hand, Zayn’s eyes scan each window before coming upon an entire fleet dedicated to London. Of fucking course.

He walks quicker as flocks of people get on the busses, queues forming along the sides of some of the busier ones. He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say if he finds Harry, how he expects Harry to not think he’s out of his mind for stalking him at a bus station. Coming to the startling realization that he has no idea what he’s doing, is the same moment he sees Harry, a grey beanie and a deep purple sweatshirt mid-way through a queue of people waiting in line for a bus near the middle of the fleet.

He must be able to feel someone looking at him, that phantom sensation, because he looks to the side and meets Zayn’s eyes as he’s walking across the platform towards him. Zayn sees the shock register on his face, eyes going wider and then his lips parting slightly. Zayn thinks he’s beautiful, realizes he’s quite a bit screwed.

“Zayn?” He steps out of the line and meets Zayn halfway, people twirling around them as they try to find their bus. There’s the loud releasing sound of buses leaving, splintered chatter as people arrive and squeaks as the doors close. “I thought you were taking the train? What are  you doing here?”

“Hey.” Zayn’s mind goes blank and then starts hurling words at his mouth, and his lips just go for it. “I have a can opener.” Harry blinks at him. “I have a can opener and a fondue set and fancy glasses my mom bought for me to cook nice meals and stuff.

Harry’s eyes tracing over Zayn’s features like he’s trying to read his skin, “I know. You told me, remember?”

Zayn presses on. “Um, and like, I want to cook you dinner sometime. I haven’t wanted to do that in a long time.” He blows air out his lips, heart somehow heaving in his chest. “So, yeah. And I don’t have your number which I need to invite you, like. If that’s what you want too--”

Harry cuts him off with a little laugh, dimple denting his cheek. “I wanted to ask you,” he says. “This morning when you left. I couldn’t think of how to say it.”

Zayn swallows and smiles, one corner of his lips quirking up. Leave it to two people swearing off romance to be the ones to nearly miss each other.

“When I told you to have a safe trip, I probably should have just said that I really like you.”

Zayn’s laughter comes out in a huff, “Would have saved me a trip and another train ticket.”

“Did you miss your--” It’s funny the way Harry’s eyes go wide as he goes quiet, unlocking his phone to looks at the time, flipping the screen so Zayn can see it. 8:58. “You missed your train!”

“And you haven’t even given me your number.” He sighs, smile tugging at his lips.

Harry rolls his eyes before handing over his unlocked phone, Zayn’s name typed in the contact list. “Put it in here, princess.”

“Princess?” Zayn raises an eyebrow as he takes the phone, “I don’t know about that. Malik means king, you know.”

“Oh, pardon me.” Harry puts a hand to his chest, “I didn’t know I was in the presence of royalty.”

Zayn bites his lip as he tries not to laugh -- his emotions flutter when he’s around Harry and he can hardly think straight. He’s not even sure when the last time was someone had that effect on him. He hands the phone back noticing the dwindling crowd surrounding them, two busses pulling away at once just down the platform and a last call echoing around the station.

“You should go,” Zayn says, nudging his head towards the bus behind Harry. There’s one woman getting on, a boy with blue hair dragging his feet right behind her. “You’ll miss your ride.”

Harry glances over his shoulder as if he’s forgotten he was planning to get on at all. He nods taking a step back, “Okay, yeah. That’s a good idea.”

“I have a lot of them.”

He takes another step and then pauses, “How are you getting back?”

“I’ll go buy a bus ticket,” Zayn shrugs. “Then hang out here for a bit. I think I passed a coffee shop on the way in.” If he has half a chance he thinks he might fall asleep too.

“Right.” Harry takes a deep breath, “Well, you have my number now. So, use it. Okay?”

“Okay.” Zayn can’t help it when he smiles again, Harry’s awful at this. Just as bad as Zayn is.

Before he turns to walk away, Harry waves, adjusting the strap on his bag. And then Zayn is watching his back, broad shoulders and tapered waist heading towards the bus.

At least until Harry is striding back towards him, coming in close so he’s about three inches away, their toes almost touching. He smells like hotel body wash, slightly sweet, and a little like rumpled sheets -- Zayn can’t resist him.

“Hey,” he says, “How about I transfer my ticket to a later bus and we go get coffee together?”

Something about the question has butterflies scattering in Zayn’s stomach and he can’t place the sensation. He realizes the feeling right then, places it as being eighteen again when things were simple and liking someone didn’t have to mean anything more than that. 

“I think that sounds really good,” Zayn says, as honest as he can.

He’s not expecting it, not really, when Harry leans in and kisses him, right there in the middle of the platform at a bus station in a town he can’t even name. The kiss is sweet but a little over the edge, Harry’s tongue tracing Zayn’s bottom lip before he pulls back, smiling. Zayn pokes his dimple, feels obligated to do so for some reason.

They stand there for only a moment more before heading back towards the station, backs of their hands brushing. Harry stops suddenly before catching back up with Zayn who keeps walking, “I just thought of something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I want to say that I really liked waking up with you and just like, doing morning things and I think I’d like to leave my toothbrush at your flat.” His eyes go wide and he stumbles over his words, speaking the quickest Zayn’s heard all weekend, “Not immediately, of course. I was just thinking later on. Like, a maybe thing.” He hangs his head back on his neck and groans, “That was really bad, huh?”

Zayn laughs, grabbing for the door to the station and pulling it open, “In what world, Harry, is that not part of a terrible romantic comedy?” He steps inside and holds the door for both of them.

Harry smirks, “My world. But I think you’ll like it.” He winks and laughs like he can’t help himself.

Zayn blinks at him before letting the door slide from his hand and shut between them with a soft thud. Harry flips him off through the glass window before tugging it open and stepping inside -- both of them laughing, too loud in the quiet station but a bit too focused on each other to care.

 ♥♥♥

 

 

 

♥

“Now you take green for the grass, right? And put that wherever you want.”

One voice echoes from the back, “Wherever?”

Zayn clarifies, “Wherever on the paper you want there to be grass you can paint green. But only on the paper, please.”

It’s mayhem is what it is.

Seventeen six-year olds with paint up to their forearms and ghosted across their faces and tiny paint smocks, all of them talking at once as they attack the tiny easels in front of them with fervor and brushes held at the ready.

  
Zayn stands at the front of the swarm, mouth slightly dropped open as he watches entire pictures turn green, the sky they’ve just painted melting into a dark brown abyss. He doesn’t say anything, creative freedom and all that. His eyes find Harry easily, bent over at one of the easels next to a girl with red hair, studying her work like he’s looking at the next Monet.

“Mr. Harry,” one of the smaller ones raises two hands in the air, “I spilled.”

The word _spilled_ is as good as a siren because Harry’s up and crossing the room in a second, his own paint smock splattered with tiny, colorful handprints. The little guy who spilled, one with thick glasses and overalls, is covered in green paint and looks like he might cry about it. Harry crouches in front of him on hand grabbing for the boy’s hand and holding it in his while he talks to him.

It makes something in Zayn’s heart collapse but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it so he goes back to finishing the grass on his painting, if there’s anyone even following his lead at this point.

Zayn is a little bit gone for all of the versions of Harry -- the one with the dirty mouth and mischievous smiles, the one who curses like a sailor and won’t turn down a joint if Zayn has one, the version only Zayn gets with secret smiles and whispers against skin, Harry in his element with his cameras, playing with lighting and coloring, all the versions he doesn’t yet know. But teacher Harry, Harry in his classroom, is a different being unto himself.

It doesn’t make him think of wedding bells and forever -- nothing quite does anymore, but it makes him imagine a life with Harry, a future with little ones. It’s a life they haven’t discussed, not yet, not so soon, but Zayn’s mind sometimes lingers over it when he sees Harry like this.

And then there’s a girl tugging on his pants and kicking his shin and the whole thing goes up in a cloud of smoke as he tries to find out what she wants to get out of inflicting physical pain on him.

“I think that went really well.” Zayn’s finishing washing out the paint pans when Harry comes back from taking his class to the bus, his shirt skewed to one side and his bun falling out of his hair. He has paint across his collarbones and down his black jeans and his classroom is a bit of a wreck.

“Totally agree.” Zayn dries his hands on his own pants and sets the last paint pan up to dry.

“I’m serious,” Harry says, walking back towards his desk. The quiet of the room is almost eerie without all the shouting voices from earlier. “I don’t even know how to thank you for coming in and dealing with all of them.”

“They’re cute.” It’s not a total lie just an abridged version of the truth. He’s working on it. “And I can think of ways for you to thank me,” Zayn smirks, “Coming over for dinner tonight, for one, some other things I won’t mention in your workplace…”

Harry laughs and shakes his head, “I appreciate it.” He starts to prattle off some of the groceries he bought to make some recipes his mum sent him while he jams stuff in his messenger bag and puts on his jacket. Zayn isn’t really listening, just humming along at the right moments.

Harry’s desk is covered in drawings made by his class and sticky note reminders like, pick up dry cleaning, buy another toothbrush, and call Gemma. There’s a picture of Zayn there too, one from that night in the gazebo at the wedding, squinting his eyes and almost laughing. He hadn’t realized Harry had taken it at the time, assumed he was adjusting his camera. It matches the version Zayn has in his office, of Harry looking like a disgruntled cat as Zayn practiced taking pictures. Harry really hates that picture says he looks like an idiot, Zayn tells him that’s what makes it special.

Harry finishes rambling on and Zayn smiles at him, kisses his lips because he’s pretty sure Harry knows when he’s stopped listening but usually won’t call him on it. Harry turns out the lights to the classroom and grabs Zayn’s hand in his, squeezing.

“My mum says you should put honey on your hand,” Zayn says, remembering his phone conversation from that morning on his way to the office.

Harry raises an eyebrow, “For what?”

“Your burn, you idiot.”

“You told your mum I burnt myself?” He narrows his eyes, “She’s supposed to think I’m brilliant and talented until I actually meet her.”

Zayn grins, “Gig is up, babe.”  Harry hip checks him as they walk through the doors leading outside, and Zayn almost loses his balance. “But seriously, she says it’ll cool your skin so you won’t have a scar. She also says to be more careful.”

“Yeah, well if you wouldn’t have been trying to take my pants off it wouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

Guilty as charged, Zayn’s lips twist as he tries not to laugh, “Chocolate is an aphrodisiac you know.”

“I mean, yeah, I do. The scalding hot chocolate was a bit of a mood killer, to be fair.”

As they get closer to the tube, Zayn raises his eyebrows at him without saying anything. In the moment, a burn had been a dark mark to the first run on the fondue pot but after, making Harry keep the ice on his hand and not move while Zayn went down on him -- that was a bit of a bright spot. Harry must remember the same, clearing his throat and looking away. Zayn sees the smile playing on his lips still.

“Yeah, whatever,” he mutters, lifting their hands together and kissing the back of Zayn’s.

There may never be a wedding, no matching suits or mothers crying as their sons make promises of forever but when Zayn has Harry, when he’s with him like this, it doesn’t seem like that matters at all. It’s the worst thing he ever used to avoid thinking about, starting to fall in love again, but this time he thinks this time it might just be worth it.

 ♥ - ♥ - ♥

 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) [Tumblr](http://daisyharry.tumblr.com)


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